


Assassin Life: Paz

by GTiAbby101



Category: Jason Bourne - Fandom, The Bourne Ultimatum (2007)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-17 20:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15469269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTiAbby101/pseuds/GTiAbby101
Summary: The possibilities of what happened to Paz at the end of the Bourne Ultimatum





	1. Chapter 1

What happened to Paz after the car chase and crash in the Bourne Ultimatum?

Paz watched Bourne stride off through a haze of pain. Slumped over the steering wheel, his mind replayed the last few minutes and how closely he had come to death.

His hands, sitting limply in his lap, twitched, and he attempted to sit up, but the searing pain in his side convinced him otherwise. He breathed slowly and deeply, willing the black spots in his eyes to go away. Voices floated around him, and he became aware of the salty taste of blood in his mouth. By now, Bourne had disappeared and people were clustered around the car. ''Hold still'' a young lady in scrubs told him, holding his neck as straight as possible until the firefighters managed to pull him from the wreck. They placed him on a backboard and he was loaded into an ambulance where two attendants immediately started working on him, cutting off his shirt and examining his wounds. While they cleaned the glass off and bandaged his broken ribs and fingers, two men entered the ambulance and stood quietly by the door. "Sirs", one of the ambulance attendants addressed them, "We need to take him to the hospital for observation; this was a serious crash and he's obviously had a concussion". Paz's heart sank as they shook their heads, "Just do the best you can and we'll take over from here." Shaking their heads, the paramedics helped him sit up on the narrow cot and gently pulled his bloody shirt back on. Immediately the world swam around him and he felt sick to his stomach. As his heart pounded loudly, he clenched his fists until they turned white in an effort to not throw up. Finally, the spinning stopped and he lifted his head to meet their unsympathetic gaze. "All set?" they asked him. Without waiting for a reply, they helped him to his feet and led him out, grabbing his jacket and backpack which sat discarded by the door on the way.

Maneuvering himself down the steps, he glimpsed at his face in the glass of the door. Oozing red streaks chased each other down his tan face, and a few glass shards stubbornly clung to his close shaven dark brown hair. Looking down, he used his good left hand to cradle his throbbing right hand, all wrapped up with several fingers broken. They approached a large black SUV and one man opened the door for him, getting in after he and the other did. "Where are we going?" he asked as the SUV changed lanes and headed down an off ramp. They looked at him, then handed him a phone. The name Noah Vosen was lit up on the screen….

Paz sat in silence, staring at his injured hand and trying to keep his heaving stomach in check. He heard snatches of radio conversation from up front... "saw him walking down the street…. he's in the building now," and guessed it was Bourne. The SUV pulled up beside a group of buildings. "Here." Paz abruptly looked up and saw a Sig Sauer in the man's outstretched hand. He took it, his fingers sliding deftly into their familiar spot. Wondering how they had found his gun in the wreck of his SUV, he got out and the door slammed shut again. He was on his own again.

Instructions ringing in his ears, he took a deep breath, flinched, then made his way to the entrance; it was now or never… his last chance to make things right, or else….

As he went through the door and down the corridor, conflicting emotions hit him. He pressed them down, willing them to stop messing with his already whirling mind. A loud crash startled him and he turned to the sound, his gun already trained. He advanced quickly along the corridor and up a long flight of stairs to the roof, aided by his earpiece. By the time he reached the top, his head was pounding and his hands shook. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, letting the cool air wash over him and take the edge off his nausea before moving along the roof and around the corner…. and face to face with Bourne.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as they stared at each other. Paz was very aware that he was the only one with a gun, and yet-- he couldn't make any move to fire it. "Why didn't you take the shot?" he finally demanded. Time slowed down and his grip seemed to waver. Then suddenly Bourne spoke…."Look at you…. look at what they make you give."

The words weren't arrogant or taunting, but they hit Paz hard, sending his mind back into a tailspin. A thousand unbidden thoughts crowded his mind, and he knew Bourne could tell his concentration was gone. The noise of approaching people broke the spell. He made no move as Bourne turned and leaped off the building.

Paz winced as a gunshot came from behind him. He turned, seeing Vosen, and immediately knew full well where the next shot would be aimed at. Suddenly in motion again, he ducked down, sprinting for the fire exit, fear giving him speed. He swung down the narrow ladder, hardly aware of the burning pain in his hands and ribs. "Over here, he's gone down here," the men shouted from above him. A moment later and a bullet whined by his face. Gasping, he lost his grip on the ladder, falling the last storey. He landed hard, pain shooting up his leg. Groaning, he forced himself upright and hobbled for the alley and the safety of darkness….


	2. Chapter 2

Ch.2

The old warehouse on the corner of Watercrescent and Soulette Avenue had been empty for several years. It had originally been purchased as a useful storing place for smuggled goods, but the authorities had shown up before the plan was enacted and consequently it was a deserted place now. Only a lightbulb or two still lit up the musty interior. Two alley cats surveyed the interior, and a dog barked down the street. The night was chilly, with a nippy wind, and no people were around.

Inside, however, there was somebody. A figure, curled on his side in a shadowy corner, well removed from any windows or doors. It was a rather incongruous character in a leather coat and dark jeans, with a rumpled backpack serving for a pillow. The wind howled, making a side door swing open with a loud creak, but the figure didn't stir. Another light bulb burned out, and the lonely building became even darker...

{Bourne was yelling something at him; he strained to hear it, but Bourne walked away before he could understand.  
He was on the roof with Bourne pointing a gun at him. He started muttering some weak plea for his life, but Bourne smiled maliciously and shot him point blank.  
He could see Mrs. Landy and Mr. Vosen standing over him, "It's too bad, he was decent while he lasted."  
His coffin lay, ready to be buried in a quiet cemetery. In the distance a healthy Bourne walked away.}

The weak sun across his face made Paz open his eyes. He blinked, uncertain on his whereabouts until suddenly he remembered everything... well, most everything. He didn't remember [this] place so much.

As he sat up, hot pain flashed through him. "Ow, ow, ow," he groaned softly and gingerly felt his ribs with his good hand. He rubbed his face, noting the time on his watch read 11:35 A.M.  
Checking his hastily constructed bandage wrapped round his head made even more pain. Hanging his head, he waited for the pain to tone down to a dull throb. It always did eventually. He felt around for the gun, and found it in his backpack. He dimly remembered stowing it in there after crawling into the warehouse the evening before…...

[Limping down the alley, Paz heard the shouts of the men on the roof. His sprained ankle sent waves of searing pain up his leg and he struggled to think clearly. Holding his gun tightly, he crossed a quiet street and down some steps to the waterfront. Crowds of people had walked there the day before and his footsteps were lost with the others in the snow. As he shuffled along he kept swivelling around, checking for his hunters and also Bourne. It was silent, but only for a moment; and then he saw the two men following, one directly behind him, the other one up a little bit.  
He broke into an awkward run. The men did too. Paz knew they would easily catch up to him. He needed to get away from the waterfront, to somewhere safer; here he was exposed, and they would get him in no time.

As if reading his thoughts, he felt more than heard the silenced shot. He gasped as it nicked his head. Suddenly feeling ice cold and dizzy, he struggled up some steps and back to street level. He pressed the hood of his jacket against the wound, successfully stopping the bleeding. A quick glance behind him revealed the two men were getting closer. He crossed another street, barely hearing the cars screeching to a halt behind him, and as in a daze he walked down and crossed another street.

Slouching in a darkened doorway, he looked for his pursuers. He cursed as he saw them across the street from him. Hurriedly, he drew his gun and let off two quick shots. Both men fell to the ground. Somewhere in the background, a lady screamed. One of the men got to his knees and let off a couple shots in his direction. Paz limped away as fast as possible, hearing people shouting behind him as they helped the injured agents. Although he wasn't sure where he was going, he kept walking. He pressed his good hand firmly to his head, and tucked the injured one in his coat.

Finding a public restroom, he ducked inside. Falling to his knees as soon as he got in the doorway, he barely made it to the toilet before he violently retched. When he was done he shakily lowered himself to the floor, totally exhausted.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but the sound of someone coming in woke him from his uncomfortable doze. He could hear the man muttering and talking to himself, and guessed he was a drunk. He waited, hardly daring to breathe, knowing he was partially visible. The man didn't seem to notice however, taking his time and also vomiting all over. As soon as he had stumbled off, Paz crawled over to the sink and gulped down some water, not even caring about the terrible taste. Than he grabbed a wad of paper towel, pressed it against his head and tied his hoodie tight to keep it in place.

After carefully checking his surroundings, he kept going.  
The sound of men talking drove him into a spruce bush. He listened with a pounding heart as they checked the bathrooms, hearing his name mentioned several times. When they left he kept going, but paranoia was overtaking him, and he couldn't think straight. He sank down beside a grungy dumpster and promptly fainted.

(Johannesburg. A slightly younger Paz walks through a bustling train station. The man in front of him casts a look all about him. Paz knew he was looking for a man, perhaps wearing black, with the hardened look of an assassin. He isn't looking at him. An innocuous looking Latino, wearing khaki shorts and a shirt that proclaims Hawaii! The man turns and goes out into the parking lot. He gets in a blue Mercedes and takes off. Paz gets into a red Camry and follows a discreet distance. The man leads him right to his home. He parks the car outside and walks inside. Paz parks down the street. He steps out of the car, no longer wearing the bright Hawaii! shirt. He casually strolls up to the door and nonchalantly rings the doorbell. When the man answers, Paz sets off on an elaborate advertising speech. The man lets him inside. When he turns, his eyes widen as he sees a gun pointed at his head. Without even blinking, Paz shoots him. He goes back to his car and drives off. He returns the Camry and gets on a flight to Cape Town. The man's murder is never solved, and no one is ever arrested.)

"Hey, watch it!" A man's raucous laughter and the squeal of tires jolts Paz awake. A dirty man walks past him, slipping on the slush. He curses and goes on. The car honks angrily once more and speeds off.

Confused, he sits up. Views of Johannesburg leave and he realises he is laying on a snowy street in New York. Touching his head, he is satisfied that it is no longer bleeding. Feeling more miserable than ever, he keeps on, eventually finding himself in the warehouse district. He barely remembered crawling out of the wind into the safety of the old building, but here he was.]

Now, with the sun shining on him, it all felt like a terrible dream. His dreams, however, had left him unsettled. How had he come from being the calm and collected young agent, to this cowering mess?  
But here he was, injured, hunted, and with absolutely no plans as to what he should do.

Disheartening thoughts came quickly. If only he had killed Bourne, and not that useless journalist, if only he had shot Bourne while he had had the chance, up on that roof. But now, thanks to him, he was a hunted man. And with the agency's certain ways of finding people, he probably wouldn't make it either. His heart sank, and he turned his criticism inwards. Why hadn't Bourne killed him while he had the chance? Why him? With no family, friends, or allies, Paz lived only for the agency. They fed, clothed, and thought for him. Now what?

He sensed an uncomfortable realization, but he wasn't ready to face it yet.

Getting carefully to his feet, he limped over to the door. It was a Saturday, and quiet outside. From his view he could see the East river several blocks away. He idly wondered whether Bourne had survived the fall, or if Vosen had hit him. Irritably, he hoped Bourne had died; he had been the start of bad luck for him.

He turned, and walked back to where his backpack still lay. He turned it over, dumping all its contents out. He put on a clean black t-shirt, the only one in the bag. His bloody shirt had a faint scent of vomit, and he wadded it in a ball and lay it aside. An icy wind wafting through the building reminded him that he had no hat; he didn't have to look through his bag to remember it was still in his little apartment in Wales. He hadn't thought he'd be gone that long.

He pulled his coat back on, grimacing as his broken fingers protested. He decided he'd have to get rid of both the bag and the coat eventually, they'd recognize him by them, and besides, the hood of the coat was caked with dried blood. Finding a crushed granola bar in the pocket, he ate it ravenously, thankful that it helped steady his stomach. After cleaning his gun, he counted out carefully how much bullets he had left. He had the round in the gun, minus two; and two extra mags in the bag. Not as much as he wanted…  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The sign on the second-hand store read 'Irma's used clothing and collectables'. {Irma} was a stout furrowed lady nearing 70. She looked up with interest as a man in a hoodie entered her store. "Good morning!" she called out cheerfully. The man glanced at her and mumbled an almost inaudible "Mornin'" before disappearing to the back of the store where she kept the men's stuff. Catching a slight accent, and noticing a slight limp, she harrumphed to herself and went back to her novel. Usually, she was watching the morning news at this time, but the TV had conked out earlier that week and the handy man hadn't come round to fix it yet.

After nearly an hour had elapsed and he hadn't come back, she closed the book and trotted back to where the man stood in front of a mirror, wearing a dark brown coat. A small pile of clothes lay on the floor beside him. His own coat lay on a heap, and he had a toque on his head "Need any help finding stuff?" she asked him. He started to shake his head, but then turned. "Do you have any old first-aid kits lying around by any chance?"  
"Well, I'm not sure; I'd have to go have a look." Shaking her head at his strange request, she disappeared. When she returned, he was standing by the counter with a pile of stuff; he had his own coat back on with the hood up.  
"This is all I found" she announced, showing him two little red plastic boxes. She brushed a thick layer of dust off and opened them. Everything was still in them, though it all had turned a shade of yellow. He took them, paid for it all, and left.

That afternoon, after closing up, she walked home, pulling her coat tight against the chilly wind. Over steaming cups of Earl Gray, she and her friend Louise looked over the daily newspaper. The headlines read "Two men being sought in connection of internal investigation into FBI." Irma merely glanced at the two grainy photos, then turned the page to something more interesting….


	3. Chapter 3

Natalie Romanov stood in the falling snow outside the drab clinic. She fumbled with the keys as she sought to unlock the old door. A colorful banner above the door proclaimed "Downtown Clinic - Russian speaking doctor", and under that "Michal Romanov". Their clients were mostly poor immigrants or lower class members of society that didn't want to go to a normal hospital, possibly because they were not always the most upright of citizens.  
The door finally opened with a screech, and she stepped inside, glad to be out of the cold. She hung up her coat and scarf in the tiny lunchroom; then went up front to get ready for whoever would walk through the door.

Later that morning, with a sound of a crying baby ringing in her ears, she walked into their storage room. She stopped short when she had flicked on the lights.  
The place was a mess! Bottles and boxes had been pulled haphazardly off the shelves. Bandages had been pulled out of their boxes, then stuffed partially back in. Needles spilled out of their container and the pills had been rummaged through and mixed around. Spinning on her heels, she rushed off to find her husband.  
Michal Romanov was a balding man in his late fifties. He turned around from disinfecting a cut finger when his plump wife burst through the door. Seeing her distraught face, he immediately asked "What's wrong?" Without answering, she beckoned him urgently. Sighing, he told his patient to wait a moment, than hurried after her. "This is what's wrong," she wailed, "someone's broken in!" Dr. Romanov calmly looked over the mess, than turned to her. "Clean it up, and take inventory on what's missing. They probably just took medicine. It would be bad for our reputation if the police had to start snooping around." "Maybe we should have installed security cameras," his wife sniffed. "I don't think that is necessary, but if it happens again, I will consider it."  
He left her with the mess and went back to his patient. "In a neighbourhood like this", he reasoned to himself, "a break-in isn't the worst thing that could happen."

Paz glanced at his watch nervously. The bus was 10 minutes late. Since he had arrived at the derelict motel the night before, he hadn't stopped looking around. Every minute he was waiting to see a flicker of recognition in someone's eyes, a long stare, a suspicious glance. So far, no cop cars had come screaming in, and no one had pulled a gun on him, but still he couldn't calm down. He hadn't slept well in the motel; the people in the next room and their blaring TV had kept him up. At least the night before, he had a couple blissful hours of sleep in the storage room of that seedy clinic. At least  _there_   no cameras would pick him up; he had made sure of that. Adjusting his generic sunglasses, he studied the other people around him carefully, looking for anything different, anything out of place. There was nothing. "You're paranoid" he told himself severely. Shivering, he pulled a worn brown leather coat over his hoodie. His regular coat, along with his shirt and backpack, was sitting in various dumpsters around the city. Now he had a scuffed bag that stank of old soccer equipment. "At least the zipper works" he muttered grumpily to himself. A couple people looked in his direction. He scowled and turned away, spying the bus approaching. He stowed his bag away and climbed up, carefully keeping his injured hand in his pocket, so people wouldn't notice anything was wrong with it. He found a spot near the back and eased gratefully into the seat, hoping no one had noticed his limp. When he had read a newspaper that morning, he had been surprised to find a small article on him in it; a limp was something mentioned. It had been simply written that police wanted him for questioning. "Oh well, hopefully the sandy blond hair has thrown them off," he told himself. He subtly checked his gun in his coat pocket, and tried to look calm as the bus started out. It had taken him a long time to make up his mind to take a bus; he didn't think he could stand being confined for several hours, and after all, he was pretty much trapped on here until it stopped again. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he concentrated on the passing scenery.

"Mind if I sit here?" the middle-aged man queried. "Sure," Paz shrugged, shoving his bandaged hand into his pocket, inwardly trying to control his trembling. Watching the man get settled, Paz studied him out of the corner of his eye. Taking in the briefcase; inexpensive, but neat suit and slightly worn shoes, he decided he shouldn't be a threat.  
"Thanks, that lady was driving me mad" the man chuckled ruefully. Paz offered what he hoped was an understanding smile and turned back to the window. Seeing he wasn't interested in conversation, the man turned to his laptop. The miles went by smoothly, and Paz started to relax.

_His first mission: Santiago, Chile. He rode the elevator up to the 15_ _th_ _floor, keeping his shaking hands in his pocket. The others in the elevator got off as the floors accumulated until by floor 15, he was alone. When the doors opened, he had his gun up, but no one stood there. Lowering it slightly, he walked through the darkened halls. Only one office light was on; the office of a politician. Mr. Sanchez was a weak and rather loose mouthed man who had many times said unwise things. Now his time was running out. He had heard the elevator stop and was immediately suspicious. "Is anyone here, I'm looking for a Mr. Romero?" Hearing his associates name and seeing only an innocuous looking young man relieved his mind a little. "I'm sorry; he's already gone home for the night." The man looked disappointed. "Oh, just my luck, I'll come back tomorrow". He turned away as if to leave. Mr. Sanchez went back into his office. Looking on a wall monitor, he was surprised to see the security cameras had all been turned off. A click, and he jerked towards the doorway, where the young man stood. Except now, the young man didn't look so innocent, pointing a pistol at his head. His wife was the last thing that he thought of that night.  
The papers reported his suicide with all due regret. After all, he had struggled with depression all his life, hadn't he?_

"Funny, isn't it, when you see those lights, you suddenly remember something you've done wrong."  
"Huh?" Paz turned from the window, a wet streak on the glass indicating exactly where he'd fallen asleep.  
"Police, as soon as you seen them, you're sure they're after you" the man grinned. Paz twisted his head around to see the cruiser stopped behind a minivan. Exhaling with relief, he turned forward again. The man chuckled again, "You look like you've just seen a ghost." Paz nodded halfheartedly and muttered, "Yeah, you're right, you do remember when you see the lights."

Ignoring the man's probing glance, he got up and walked back to the bathroom. As he splashed water on his face, he tried to control his breathing. Now his stomach was all upset, and he felt like vomiting. "He didn't mean anything by that," he told himself. He sat on the toilet lid for a while, until he had calmed down and his hands no longer shook. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he lifted up the corner of his beanie and examined the ugly bruise that had appeared after his forehead smacked the steering wheel five days ago. The fuzzy growth on his chin also helped hide the numerous scratches from the shattering glass. He looked a bit... _interesting_ , but he couldn't do anything about that. Plastering an assured look on his face, he returned to his seat.

Two days later, the bus pulled into a small town in Quebec. Thankfully, the border patrol hadn't given him too much trouble, and the man who had sat beside him had finally found another spot. His endless attempts to start a conversation had been wearying and Paz was surprised to find his temper flaring a few times. Out from under the thumb of the agency, he was a little mystified at the behavior he was capable of. It was more upsetting than mystifying actually.

The night was cold, and Paz was happy for the heater. Cold weather wasn't exactly his preference, and the motel hadn't exactly looked top of the line. He pulled a plane ticket out of his bag and looked at it. It had taken most of the cash he had on him to buy it. Hopefully he would be safely in England before his passport would be flagged by the FBI. There were other worries, after buying the ticket; he had less than one hundred dollars on him.  
After a long, hot bath, he washed the dye out of his hair, shaved, than dyed his hair again. Pulling a pair of square frames and green eye contacts out of his bag, he tried everything on. Holding his passport up, he scrutinized the look and decided it was good enough.

He crawled in between the cool sheets and waited for sleep. His gun was tucked under his pillow, and he felt reasonably secure. As the minutes ticked by and sleep still eluded him, he turned his thoughts to happier days, when he had been proud to be an agent…

_Poland: his next placement after operating in South Africa for one and a half years. The stern looking agent that met him at the airport introduced himself as Jarda. As Paz settled in to the small apartment in Warsaw, Jarda told him they had been assigned to work together for a while, with Jarda acting as mentor.  
It didn't take long for Paz to warm to the experienced agent. They spent many long evenings manning a 'safe house.' Missions were few and far between, but Paz still learned lots from Jarda.  
"Paz," Jarda started out one such evening in his usual blunt way, "there is some worrying habits of yours I noticed." Without waiting for Paz to say anything he continued. " Firstly, you're too friendly, and secondly," with a slow smile starting to pull at the sides of his mouth, "you sleep too much." Paz looked down and frowned with irritation; that was almost exactly what his trainers had said several years ago. "See what I'm talking about?" Confused, Paz shook his head. "You looked down and frowned, meaning you're embarrassed and annoyed that I've mentioned that. Perhaps it's not the first time someone's said that. You see, it's not that you greet everyone one the street, but it's your body that's talking too much. You wrinkle your nose when someone wearing strong perfume walks by, you frown when someone talks too loud, your facial expression tells exactly what you think of the person in front of you in the grocery store." Paz waited quietly, knowing Jarda was right. "As for you sleeping too much, five minutes in front of the TV and you're already dozing. Three minutes on the train- I don't even want to think about what you do during debriefing." Jarda was openly grinning now. Paz smiled also, knowing Jarda was one of those people who went to bed at midnight, got up at four, and were still bursting with energy. "Tomorrow, you go jogging with me." Paz grimaced, but said nothing._

The travel agent looked down once more at the passport in front of him. The photo on the passport was of a blonde man with black glasses; the accompanying name read Manual Reyes. He stared at the picture, then at the face in front of him, and, finally satisfied, handed it back to the passenger. Paz breathed a sigh of relief and ran his hand carefully over the dyed hair. He didn't relax until he was through security and on the plane.  
The man next to him was an Asian businessman who ignored him the whole flight over.

It was late afternoon when the plane landed in Heathrow. Paz disembarked and picked up his bag, his eyes probing the crowd the whole time. It didn't take long for him to notice them: two men carrying no luggage, but still looking like they had to get somewhere. It appeared the agency had already found out where he was.

Spinning on his heels, he briskly walked towards the next gate; if he was lucky, he would meet the next crowd disembarking. He didn't dare look behind, but he could feel their presence. Sure enough, he was soon surrounded by a crowd of recently disembarked passengers. Paz hurried along with them, trying to blend in. A hurried glance behind him revealed the two men still behind him, possibly even gaining.

Ducking his head he broke into a run. People muttered angrily as he shoved his way through. Spying a door reading 'Employees only' he ducked through it. He jogged down the narrow hallway, until he got to what he was looking for; a break room and showers. The sound of running water revealed someone was there and he hurriedly swiped the person's reflective vest and lanyard hanging on a hook. Peering into the hallway, he noticed a door opening. Without stopping to see who it was, he raced off, using the access card as he went. The first door he burst through happened to be an office. Ignoring the surprised demands he went through the door marked 'Exit.'

He ponded down a set of stairs; halfway down, a door opened revealing the surprised faces of the two men after him. They fired after him. Hearing the whine of bullets right beside him, Paz jumped.  
He landed hard and tumbled the last flight, coming to rest motionless right in front of another door. Seeing him down, the men started down after him, only to be stopped by several security guards brandishing pistols and shouting at them to put their hands up.

As the men angrily explained to the security guards who they were and what they were doing, Paz, unnoticed by the guards, first got to his knees, then clambered to his feet. Leaning on the wall for support, he swiped his precious card once more and found himself in an employee parking garage. Dumping the vest and lanyard in a trash can, he strolled through the garage and out to street level.


	4. Chapter 4

The sidewalk is icy, causing Paz to slip to one knee. He immediately gets back up again, brushing himself off as he looks around the quiet London street. Satisfied no one has seen him, he enters a tall steel building. He's slept on the street for four nights, and only yesterday realized the door was always unlocked. He slips into a darkened side room; squatting on the floor, he pulls a sandwich out of his pocket and devours it ravenously. The bread is hard and tasteless, but he barely notices. Tomorrow is Monday; he has to get out before anyone arrives. He stuffs his hands in his pocket and tries to sleep.

_Paz stared out the small plane window as the ground disappears below him. After working in Poland with Jarda for two years, he had been assigned to Mexico. He enjoyed Mexico; feeling much more at home in the culture than he had in Poland. Mexico was also much more exciting; he should know, he had a broken leg, deep scars around his neck, and another bullet wound to add to his collection. Now he was going to Wales. By now he was confident and collected in his work. During his time in Poland, he had sharpened his skills as a sniper; although he had few kills involving sniping. He was taking over another agent's apartment in Wales; the agent had gone missing several weeks ago, and, although it wasn't mentioned to Paz, he inwardly suspected the girlfriend had been the culprit. Paz had never had a girlfriend; the agency strongly discouraged it, and he took them very seriously. This was also partially the fault of Jarda, as he was nearly fanatical in his devotion to the agency._

The cracked mirror certainly doesn't flatter him. All he sees is a thin, pale face; his eyes are drawn and puffy and a few scars still frame his grizzled chin from his accident in New York. Yawning, Paz rubbed his eyes; he should have known he wouldn't sleep well in that place.  
Another man entered the public washroom, and Paz turned away, busying himself with tidying up and changing his shirt.

The street lights flickered through the fog, and a few stray snowflakes drifted down. Paz sat hunched on a park bench under a tree.  
He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt warm and contented. Ever since the plane touched down in England, he'd been questioning his decision to come.

After getting away from the two men in the airport, he had realized he'd lost the last bit of money on him. It had rained that night, and he'd gotten soaked; it snowed the next morning, and he was sure he'd get frostbite, now he had a sore throat and an aching head. He was completely miserable and desperate do something-  _anything._ He knew he needed some plan of action; he'd been wandering around aimlessly for almost the whole time he'd been on the run. It was time to take stock of his situation and do something about it. The problem was; he had no idea what kind of action to take.

"Hey, you there!" Paz looked up, dismayed to see two police with flashlights striding across the lawn towards him.

Did they know who he was, or were they after him just because he was loitering?  
He didn't wait to find out. He sprang up and dashed across the lawn.

He heard them shout as they pounded along behind him. He ran across a street and turned down an alley. He stopped short when he realized it was a dead end. He spun around; but it was too late, the police had already entered the alley. "Hold it right there young man!" the older one said.

Paz put his hands up, and they both slowly advanced forward. As soon as they reached him, Paz suddenly spun around and punched the first man. The other man tried to grab him, but Paz used his grip on the first man to block him. The man struggled against his grip and with another punch, Paz sent him stumbling aside. The other man advanced and grappled him, sending them both sprawling in the alley. They rolled back and forth, the man trying to use his pepper spray. Paz struggled to grab the man's flashlight, which had rolled to the side when he'd grabbed Paz. He finally managed to clutch the flashlight and rolled back, only to get a dose of pepper spray in his face. He swore as his eyes burned and teared. He buried his face in his hands and gasped for breath.

The man sat on him, and tried to handcuff him, when Paz blindly swung the light at his face. His aim must have been good enough, because the man groaned and loosened his grip, allowing Paz to get up.  
"Oof," Paz grunted as he was rammed by the second cop, who by this time had recovered. Still holding tightly to the light, Paz swung it at his face, but the man ducked and sent a punch which connected with Paz's face. Paz gasped and reeled backwards. The man swung again, but this time Paz ducked to the right and smashed the light into the man's face with a sickening crunch. The man collapsed and didn't get up. That left the other man yet. He had gotten to his feet and stood glowering at him. Paz's face burned like fire and he felt a trickle of blood on his face, which only made him more determined. There was a moment of silence as they faced each other. Paz desperately wiping his face with his sleeve; reading hesitation in the young cop's face.

The silence was split by the squawk of the police's radio. The man hesitated, but when he made a move to touch it, Paz leaped at him. He tackled the man and they once again rolled around on the cold alley floor. They traded punches until Paz finally managed to get on top of the man and, pinning him down with his knees, blindly rained blow after blow on the unfortunate cop until he stopped resisting and went limp.

Shaking, Paz got to his feet and surveyed the damage. Both police were unconscious. As the adrenalin left him, Paz felt tired and sick. He gingerly felt his burning face, it was hot and tender compared to his cold fingers. Suddenly hearing people, he picked up his discarded bag and hurried from the scene. Two blocks away, he wiped the flashlight clean on his coat and dumped it in a trashcan.

There's a long note on the refrigerator: detailed instructions for the housekeeper. There's also the date of their return. By the looks of the magazines and papers, it's probably a vacation in the Caribbean. The alarm system is also in good working order, except now it's pointed a little different direction. The housekeeper has just been there, watering plants and feeding the cat. She doesn't notice the broken window on the second floor, but it's there, neatly covered again with cardboard (from that new TV they just bought) and hidden behind thick curtains.   
Mr. Minx, the cat, is sitting outside the office door, waiting for his new playmate to reappear. The door silently opens and Paz (with a very large black eye) glides out. He goes up to the darkened kitchen and prepares himself a cup of tea. Coughing, he arranges a pile of blankets on the living room floor, hidden behind the couches. After drinking the hot tea, he burrows down in the blankets and appears to fall asleep. Mr. Minx sits on the couch and stares disapprovingly down at him.

The next few days pass in a blur to Paz, who alternates between sleeping and recovering from his fight, and hiding from the housekeeper. Thankfully, the owners aren't expected home for another week, so she hasn't started cleaning the whole place yet. Paz makes sure to wash the cups and put the crackers back in the cupboard before she arrives. One evening, feeling a little better, he watches a movie with Mr. Minx. It's a sappy romantic one, and they both end up sleeping through it. The next day, he washes all his clothes. A few days later, he takes a long bath and emerges from the bathroom with his hair its normal color again. The next day, he bids a fond good-bye to Mr. Minx and crawls out of the window and into the cool spring air.

The Audi hummed along quietly on the busy highway. Paz had stolen it earlier in the day, and was now quickly approaching Cardiff. He had removed its plates and replaced them with plates he taken from another random car.  
He checked his rear view mirror again, but no police were in sight. After parking the car on a quiet street, he strolled off. He wandered around the streets, eventually coming to a tall town house.

This had been his home for the several months he'd worked here, before being called out on that fateful mission to London. He knew the agency probably had been all through his apartment, but he wanted to take the chance of seeing if any of his stuff was still here. He didn't have a key, but that was the least of his worries. He let himself in the back door and made his way up to the top floor, stopping in front of Apartment #4. He paused a moment, then knocked.

"Lois, Carl, be quiet, someone's here." Emma Wright called to her two boys. She picked up a crying baby and stepped over cheerios and baby bottles on her way to the door.

Standing outside was a man. He was dressed in a tan leather coat and dark pants. He was holding a worn bag and a hat barely concealed his dark hair.  
"How may I help you?" she asked warily. The man was wordless for a moment, then stammered, "Um, this was my former apartment; I hadn't realized it'd been resold."  
"Well, we only moved in here last week," she offered hopefully, feeling uneasy about the man.  
"Do you have any idea about the stuff that was in here?" he queried.  
"No, it was all cleaned when we looked at it." The man's face fell and he turned away.  
"Just as well, thanks anyway." Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared down the steps. Emma closed the door, deliberating about her strange visitor.

The day was warm and sunny, but Paz hardly noticed it. Sitting beside a fountain, he pulled some money out of his bag and counted it. It was all he had found while scrounging around that house while he'd lived there.  
He tipped his face back to catch some rays while contemplating his situation.

"What in the world am I doing? Why am I going to all this trouble to hide from the agency; they'll catch up eventually, so what am I doing?

They'll most likely kill me, and I'll be known only as a conspirator and rogue. So much for the reputation of a respected assassin.  
I'll be buried in a small cemetery, and if my name is ever mentioned again, it will be with a sneer and a shrug.  
What a wasted life!"  
Paz grunted and got up. Strolling under the trees, he observed people moving all around him. The young couples, still madly in love; the stressed collage kids, the teens, simply out looking for fun.

Where did  _he_ fit in? He didn't, that was the problem. He wasn't a normal citizen of any country; a different way of living had been deeply ingrained in him, and he didn't know if, by himself, he could find the answers to all his questions. Who could help him, who might… just  _might_  have some answers?

The answer came before he had even finished the last thought:  _Bourne._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated :)

The rain pattered down steadily as Paz wandered a lonely alley in Southampton. It had rained sporadically for the last week and he was completely tired of it by now.  
Stopping in front of a reddish door, he pulled the hood off his head and knocked. When the door opened; the sounds of clattering dishes and the tantalising odour of spicy food washed over him and made his stomach rumble.

"Yes?" the little Asian lady in an apron who stood there asked, suspiciously taking in the disheveled man standing in the rain.

"I'm hungry; I haven't eaten in several days. Please, I can wash dishes or clean floors or whatever, but anything for something to eat."

His gaunt looks and pleading face convinced her. Half an hour later found Paz up to his elbows in soap suds cleaning sticky Lo mein off of a plate. He had devoured it in record time, and had then been assigned to wash dishes for the rest of the evening.

It was past midnight by the time Paz curled up in his usual sleeping spot, behind two dumpsters, under the eaves of a nearby building. Here he was protected not only from most of the weather, but also from any passerby's.

As so often, sleep eluded him for several hours and when, with the sun already lightening the skies, it did come, it was filled with unsettling dreams: dreams of a past of which he had only dim memories.

The next evening found him once again at the little restaurant; this time the lady let him in without hesitation and for the next several weeks he worked there, first only for food, but later on for a little money.

The start of summer found him in the middle of France, working odd jobs to keep him from starving as he attempted to work his way to southern France.

The constant moving and fear of his future was staring to take a toll on Paz. His behavior was changing from cool and collected to nervous and volatile.

At a small farm, south of Paris, a farmer had given him a job, but two days later Paz came up to the house for the evening to find a police car parked out front. The policeman caught sight of him and approached him. Not wanting a confrontation as had happened in London, Paz wheeled and took off. With the police and the farmer hot on his heels, Paz ran through the farm, knocking stuff over behind him in an attempt to slow his pursuers. He leapt over a barbed fence, scraping his hands in the process and raced through a pasture; the surprised cows thankfully taking no notice of him.

He came to a halt once on a road and rested his hands on his knees, gasping for breath as he surveyed his options. The farmer was still behind him, but the policeman had gone back to get the car, and was now hurtling down the road towards him.  
Paz turned and dashed through someone else's yard.  
In front of him the ground sloped down toward a river, and Paz headed straight for it. He was nearly at the bank when he stumbled and fell: the next moment the police was on top of him.

Terrified, Paz struck out fiercely with more strength than he realized he had; the surprised policeman stepped back and the next moment Paz threw himself into the water.  
He was a good swimmer, but the water was cold and the current strong. The adrenaline still flowing through him enabled him to keep afloat as the river pulled him downstream.

Several miles later, he exhaustedly dragged himself out of the water.  
The setting sun hid him from view as he pulled himself along the riverbank. Shivering, he attempted to get to his feet, only to tumble awkwardly in a heap. He rose to his knees and crawled along the hard ground. Bumping into a tree, he clung to it and used it get to his feet. He walked unsteadily forward and was making slow but steady progress when he crested a hill and came upon a darkened farm.  
Noticing a small outbuilding on the edge of the property, he made his way there. It was filled with prickly straw, but he was too tired to care and fell asleep almost immediately, curled up on some bales.

A sharp prod and a few curses in French woke him early. A grey-haired man was standing in the barn; a pitchfork in one hand and a cart behind him in the doorway.  
Paz knew French well enough to understand the man wasn't happy with him. Feigning confusion, he muttered several choice phrases in Spanish and got up. The man advanced and made motions for him to stay. Slightly surprised, Paz complied, until he saw two familiar cars pulling onto the property. Without looking behind him, he knew the only exit was past the man.

Berating himself for his carelessness, he made a motion to go forward, but the man brandished the fork and shouted at him.  
Thoroughly incensed, Paz lunged at the man and knocked him down. The man yelled at him and tried to shove him off. Paz scrambled to his feet and gave the shocked man several vicious kicks.

He spun around, only to be confronted with three police officers. To his chagrin, one of them was the one he had assaulted the night before. Another was talking on a radio, and all of them shouted at him to put his hands up.

Looking around, Paz suddenly felt panic; he had never been surrounded and in a direct confrontation like this. His palms started to sweat as he took a step forward; hands up.  
The police were hesitant, most likely waiting for reinforcements; after last night's episode, he didn't blame them.  
He pondered several modes of action, but his mind numbly discarded each one. Somehow, with this many people, his bravado was slipping.

The farmer had gotten up and slipped past him and to the safety of the police where he hurled oaths in Paz's direction. Paz's mind was starting to feel confused. Nothing of his training was coming to mind, and a helpless feeling engulfed him.

The cold steel of handcuffs slapped on his wrists brought him back to reality with a jolt.  
Looking down at them, his mind suddenly kicked back into gear and he jerked away from the men. They grabbed him, but he wriggled away, pulling off one handcuff as he went.  
He bolted for one of the police cars, which was still running. Jerking the door open, he slipped inside, and took off with a squeal of tires.

The car bumped and swayed over the rough pavement as Paz swerved to avoid an oncoming car. The sound of sirens and honking horns came from behind him. He swung around a narrow corner, the little car nearly going on two wheels. A small town was up ahead but he didn't slow. There was a loud crunch as he scraped another vehicle that didn't have time to get out of the way. A louder crunch told him the police cars behind him had also not had enough time to move out of the way.

Now with no one behind him for the moment, he careened his way down the small roads.

However, his relief was short-lived: a sharp turn revealed two women walking down the road.

He yanked the steering wheel hard to avoid them. The car spun to one side, and, though he tried to correct it, it bounced airborne over a small ditch and plowed sideways through a meadow. He threw is hands over his face as the car headed straight for a tree.

The impact tossed him through the windshield and he found himself staring up at a beautiful blue sky. His head spinning, he rolled to his side, only to find blood pouring down his face.

Clamping a hand over his broken nose, he staggered to his feet, and took off across the field; the shocked ladies still standing immobile in the road, hardly believing what had just happened.

Paz ducked into the public restroom, his head low as he cautiously checked his surroundings. He waited anxiously in a stall until it was quiet. Standing in front of a mirror, he took a deep breath and placed his fingers on his nose. He started counting to three, but stopped at two, dropping his trembling hands.  
He wasn't so sure he could go through with this after all. Someone entered the washroom and he ducked back into a stall so they couldn't see his nose. As he waited he tried to calm his trembling but to no avail. When it was quiet again he stood in front of the mirror.  
More determinedly this time, he placing his shaky fingers once again against his nose and firmly pressed.  
The pain was excruciating, but even as tears forced their way out of his eyes, he didn't lessen the pressure.  
When spots started dancing across his eyes, he stopped. Burrowing his head in his hands he let out several great sobbing breaths.  
When he was able, he surveyed his job in the mirror. It was better, but not finished. Once again, he firmly ran his fingers along his nose until he was satisfied. Half an hour later, when he left, the broken nose was barely noticeable except for some bruising.

Several weeks later, he was in Dijon, penniless, and bereft of all the contents of his worn soccer bag. The only thing still on him was his faithful Sig Saur. Fearful of all the warrants for him, he stayed low and out of sight, waiting until evening to skulk around, digging through trash, feeling like a worthless bum.

"Merci," he mumbled to the retreating figure behind the closing door. Turning, he thumped down the narrow stairs and out to the waning sunlight. He strolled down the street, watching the streets emptying as people went home. Still feeling disappointment over his last failed idea, he decided he'd try one more person.  
It was dark when he knocked at a small apartment. An older man answered, but shook his head when Paz asked for a Mr. Renold. Disappointed once more, Paz headed for the city limits.

The apartment building was an elegant old place. Window boxes and quaint railings decorated the street side. Paz stood by the slightly plainer backside of the building. As he rang the bell for the third time, his fingers closed around the gun in his pocket.

He was turning away when he heard the bolt being pulled back. The door swung open revealing a middle-aged man with thick black hair.

"Ignacio?" the surprised man asked, "What brings you here?" Henri Durand queried to the figure standing in the street.

Paz smiled a little inwardly, hearing the name Henri had always known him by.  
"Can I come in?" Paz asked, looking around the street.  
"Certainly," Henri replied, stepping aside as Paz ducked under the low doorway and into the apartment.  
His hand still in his pocket, he stepped aside to let Henri go in front. His eyes swept around the small room, cluttered with the tools of a forger.

"Still up to your old tricks, eh?" Paz asked.  
Henri laughed, sweeping some papers off the coffee table and indicating for Paz to take a seat. Paz sat stiffly in the chair, watching the other man as he moved around a tiny kitchen.

"Been busy lately?" he asked carefully.  
"No, and it's unfortunate; I wouldn't mind a little extra money at the moment. My wife and I are expecting our first." Henri beamed as he mentioned this. Paz's mind raced as he unsuccessfully tried to remember her name. Henri had constantly talked about her when Paz had been a regular visitor here.

On the other hand, he mused, it was strange for work to be slow. Even though Henri's work was illegal, he was a good cheap source of fake documents, and Paz had used him many times for documents when in a pinch.  
"She… doesn't live here, does she?"  
Henri laughed again, "No, we have an apartment on the other side of the city; we don't mention my little hobby here. Although, since this isn't making much right now, I got a second job as a janitor; it's not much of a job, but at least its honest money."

Paz nodded as he took the chipped mug offered him. As he swallowed, he took in the rest of the apartment. There were only two other rooms, and judging by the open doors, they were a bathroom and a bedroom. He silently got up and examined the apartment; satisfied that no one else was there, he turned to find Henri's eyes boring into him.

"What's up with you?" Henri asked seriously.  
"What do you mean?" Paz asked uncertainly.  
"You never used to be this nervous… is anything wrong, something with the agency?"  
Paz bristled as he heard the word agency. A deep anger welled up inside him and he struggled to keep his expression neutral.  
"Ah...Um…No," he stuttered, caught off guard. He gripped the gun in his pocket for reassurance as he struggled for a plausible explanation.

"I'm just in a little bit of a… situation right now, and I need a place to stay, just for a few days." He said, walking back to where Henri still sat.

"Why don't you tell me what's really wrong?" Henri asked, holding up a newspaper with a large grainy photo of Paz with the words 'Wanted' underneath in bold letters.  
"You came here with that shaggy hair and," he peered closer, "…broken…nose looking like a destitute person who's been fist fighting."

Paz was silent for several long moments, then, disturbed at having lost authority over the situation; he wearily sat down and started recounting a revised version of the events of the last month.


	6. Chapter 6

A knock on the door woke Paz from his sleep. Rolling off the couch, he tripped over the blanket he was wrapped in and crashed to the floor.

Henri's eyebrows shot up in amusement as Paz finally opened the door, letting him in.  
"Had a rough night?"  
"No, just a rough awakening." Paz answered with the slightest bit of humor in his voice.  
Henri set two paper bags on the kitchen counter and took off his coat.  
"I brought you some food and stuff," he announced as he unpacked the contents onto the counter.

While Henri prepared breakfast, Paz took a shower. As he toweled himself dry, he studied his solemn expression in the mirror. Most of the cuts from the first car crash had healed, although now there were new scars from his flight through the other windshield. His nose had turned a shade of green, but it was straight. His hair was short again, thanks to Henri and his hair cutting skills. He had cut it in a crew cut, so the longer hair on top would hide the small bald spot where the bullet from the two agents had nicked him.

"I owe you one, Henri," he said, joining the other man in the kitchen.

Henri shook his head, "No,  _I_  do. You got me off the streets and gave me this job in the first place. It may not have been your idea in the first place or even the most legal type of work, but look how far I've come. Now I have another job, a wife, and soon a child. What more could I ask?"

Paz was speechless. Although he  _had_  helped Henri, it was because he needed documents, and he'd been able to see that Henri was smart enough for the job. He couldn't exactly say he'd taken care of him out of the kindness of his own heart; he had simply been a useful tool.  
On the contrary, Henri though Paz was a trustworthy agent having a bit of bad luck; he'd taken him in and cared for him, let him stay now for almost a week, fed him, and what was he getting in return?

A new sensation nagged at the back of his mind; he wasn't sure what it was, but it made him feel bad and untrustworthy.

Lost in thought, he wandered over to the couch; Henri watched him but said nothing, instead turning back and busying himself with the dishes.

Paz tried to decipher the new feeling, and slowly it came to him:  _guilt_. He hadn't felt any  when shooting at the two agents, fighting with the police, or taking advantage of a naive friend. He hadn't felt much, if any, his whole career as an asset.  
Now, suddenly, remorse loomed over him like a cloud. A sudden urgency gripped him. He had to get out, get away from Henri.

As if reading his mind, Henri spoke. "Ignacio, I was thinking…it may be better if you are not here next time I come."  
Paz looked up at Henri's concerned gaze and nodded dumbly.

They ate breakfast together in silence. After tidying up the kitchen, Paz washed his clothes and cleaned up his stuff that was lying around the apartment.

Late in the afternoon, Henri gathered several documents he'd been working on and tucked them into his bag. He bid Paz goodbye and left quickly.

Left alone again in the quiet apartment, Paz noticed a passport still sitting on the table. He picked it up and flipped it open. The passport was in the name of Ramon Fernandez and the young dark haired man in the picture was of  _him_ , at least a slightly younger him.  
He remembered when it was taken: over a year ago he had needed another passport in a hurry, and had no access to agency issued ones. Henri had made it up for him then, but circumstances changed and he'd never used it.  
Now holding it in his hand, he realized Henri had purposely left it there.

After Bourne saved his life, this was the second kind deed someone had done for him without ulterior motives. He wasn't sure how to react to it; it only made him confused.

Curling up on the couch, Paz decided he could afford to catch a few hours of sleep before he left. He had no sooner closed his eyes however, when his mind switched into overdrive.

_Martin Clayborne._ He let the gears of his mind turn until he could remember where that name came from.  _Martin…_ yes,  _that_  Martin, a recruit who, along with Paz, had been one of the first agents of the program Blackbriar. Martin was not a natural agent as Paz had been. He'd made several naïve blunders on his first missions, and Paz had been assigned to bring him back to HQ.

_Paz sighed inwardly and resisted tapping his foot impatiently.  
"Martin, you need to come with me, I have orders to bring you back."  
The skinny young man in front of him vigorously shook his head, making his oversized glasses slide further down his nose. "I-I...can't," he muttered fearfully.  
Paz folded his arms across his chest and waited. Martin made no move either, just stared at his hands.  
Paz stepped into the adjoining room, and explained the situation in a few words to his earpiece. Orders came back immediately: Martin _had _to come._  
Digging through the supplies in the cupboard, Paz pulled out a needle and bottle.  
Martin leaped straight up when he felt the poke of the needle, but Paz easily overpowered him and held the struggling Martin down as he finished the injection. Martin's angry cries faded as Paz let go of him, letting him collapse on the floor.  
Paz efficiently cleaned up the apartment and helped the drugged Martin down the steps to the waiting car, which he drove to a designated point and handed Martin back over to his superiors.  
He had never seen or heard of him since.

Paz watched the late afternoon shadows dance across the ceiling. He groaned softly and pulled the blanket over his head. He pinched his eyes shut and once again tried to sleep.  
 _Poor Martin.  
_ He yanked the blanket off and sat bolt upright. Had that thought actually crossed his mind?  
No, he decided finally, he didn't really feel sorry for Martin; it had all happened years ago, and it was simply a distant memory.

Another distant memory flashed across his mind: that of an old apartment, colorful block toys, worn wood floors, and soft skin as someone wrapped him in a hug.

He rocked back and forth on the narrow couch, willing his mind to stop; all this thinking was making his head hurt.

He got up and poured himself a glass of water; downing it in one gulp. After splashing cool water over his perspiring face, he returned to the couch to make another attempt at sleep.

_"_ _No, I tell you, he is not here, please, you have to believe me."_

Paz blinked as he sat up. His eyes probed the darkened apartment as he searched for the source of the voice. Was it another dream?  
More voices came from outside the door, and with a jolt, he realized that it had been Henri's voice.

Scraping sounds and the sound of a key being turned in the lock made Paz realized that the agency had caught up with him.

"I tell you, he's not here. I wouldn't hide anyone from the agency." Henri's pleading voice came again through the thin door.

Casting a panicked look around him, Paz grabbed the precious passport and his coat, the extra weight reassuring him his gun was still in it, and dashed into the bathroom, only to realize the window was too small for him to fit through. The bedroom window was slightly larger and he broke the screen out and shoved one leg through. Halfway through, he heard the apartment door swing open. He yanked his other leg through and dropped to the ground, thanking Henri silently for picking a ground floor apartment.

He had barely got to his feet when voices shouting at him to stop, announcing to him that they had already found the open window. He ignored them and pounded down the alley. A car unexpectedly screeched to a stop on the other end of the alley. Paz couldn't stop, and thumped into the driver door. The door opened, and a hand grasped Paz's shirt.

He jumped back, pulling the person out of the car along the way, only to have the barrel of a gun thrust in his face. He recognized the man as another asset from the agency. As hot anger ran through him; his hand inched toward his pocket.  
The man didn't hesitate, smashing the barrel of the gun into Paz's face. Paz groaned as it connected to his jaw with a sickening crunch. He fell heavily to the ground.

Before the man could respond, Paz rolled over, gun in his hand, and shot the agent twice in the chest. The other man grunted as the bullets impacted and he sprawled backwards on the ground. Paz got to his knees, gun in his hand, ready to shoot again should the other man move, but the man only groaned once, and went still. Head spinning, Paz stepped over the body and crawled into the car.

As he drove, he cast a quick glimpse at his face in the rear-view mirror. His jaw was undoubtedly broken; it made a scraping noise when he moved his mouth. He didn't think his nose was re-broken, although it was bleeding.

He felt no regret when he looked at the gun besides him on the seat and thought of the man he had just killed. "He got what he deserved," he decided coldly.

Looking in the mirror again, he noticed two black cars behind him; immediately recognizing them from the agency; he tried to speed up a little, but traffic prevented him. A couple blocks later, they were right behind him; he prayed they wouldn't try shooting him in the middle of the city. They didn't, but they stuck on his tail as they moved through the evening rush hour traffic. Paz grimly stuck on the road he was on; as the edge of the city approached, traffic thinned slightly and he attempted to swerve into another lane.

There was the blast of a truck horn, and a not so gentle bump sent his car spinning two lanes over, right in the path of other cars. In panic, Paz floored the throttle, lurching to the side of the road seconds before a car scraped him. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely put it back in gear, but he did, moving back into traffic and taking the next exit.

The warehouse district was almost deserted as Paz slowly bumped down a street. There were few streetlights, but the moon was bright.

Without warning, there was a loud crash and his back window collapsed inwards, showering glass all over. Silenced bullets thudded into the seats as Paz dropped down. The car swerved, narrowly missing the curb; Paz shot a glimpse out his side window and saw the headlights of the black cars behind him on one side and a looming wall on the other side. He yanked the steering wheel, and the car jumped forward while more bullets slammed into the car. The cars pulled closer and shoved his car hard. His car was much lighter than theirs and spun easily in a circle, coming to rest against a wall. Paz grimaced as the impact jolted his broken jaw.

Luckily for Paz, when it stopped, the driver's side was facing away from them. The other cars screeched to a stop, and two men ducked out, using their doors as shields as the fired more rounds in Paz's direction. Paz crawled from the crumpled driver's door, and let off two shots in the other men's direction.

The shooting stopped, but only for a moment, then it resumed, tearing chunks in the metal and showering glass shards all over him. The second car, meanwhile, had turned around, and was now racing straight for his car. Paz knew he had to move or risk being crushed by the approaching car.

There was a screech of metal as the car rammed into the driver's side of the car, pinching it against the wall. From his confining vantage point in the back seat, Paz let off several well aimed shots, nailing both men in the car directly in front of him. He squeezed out of the back window, shooting furiously at the agents as he went.

There was a barrage of gunfire in return and Paz immediately felt the hot white pain signaling he'd been shot. He tumbled to the pavement, crying out softly as more bullets grazed his face, arms and legs.

Fighting off unconsciousness, he pressed his hand against his bleeding shoulder. He strained through his blurry vision to see his gun, which had fallen when he'd been shot. He caught sight of it; beside the car, just outside the protection of the crumpled cars. Groaning, he rolled to his side, and made a grab at it.

Just as his fingers grasped it, he was shot twice more, once in the hand, and one right above his wrist. The gun skittered back towards him as his immobilised arm dropped to the pavement. Leaning on the lifeless arm, Paz wildly shot at the other car. When the gun clicked on empty, he dropped it and rolled over again, landing on his wounded shoulder. He fought to get upright, but this action took the last bit of his strength and he slumped back against the car, unconscious.


	7. Chapter 7

Silence filled the empty street which, only a few moments ago, had been filled with the sounds of shooting.

Two dark shadows advanced hesitantly from behind a car which had a crumpled front end. Sirens wailed in the distance, and both men exchanged nervous glances. Guns raised, they slowly approached the two cars crumpled against each other in the alley ahead of them.  
"Put your hands up!" one of the men yelled, but there was no answer as they slowly came around the edge of the first car.

There were three people in sight now, two fallen forward inside the first car, and a third on the ground, propped against the other car door, completely covered in blood.

The unconscious man on the ground had one hand in his lap, the other outstretched on the ground. Blood seeped steadily from a shoulder wound and his clothes were torn, revealing oozing cuts. His outstretched hand and arm were a blood-soaked mess.

Sighing with relief that he presented no threat, the first man noted, with a hint of respect, "He sure gave it all he got."  
The other man nodded in agreement. "At least Mr. Vosen should finally be happy."

While one man kept his gun on the guy on the ground, the other pulled open the car door and eased both men out of the other car. The first man was dead, but the second still had a slight pulse. Leaving the dead man, they loaded the wounded one into the car; working quickly as the sound of sirens intensified. One of the men handed his silenced pistol to the other and gave a quick nod in the direction of the man on the ground. The man took it and began to approach him, but stopped short when a police car rounded the corner. He spun around and raced back to the safety of the other car and they took off with the police in pursuit.

That evening in the city happened to be an unusually busy one: there was a large crash involving a drunken driver and a lengthy chase of a car suspected to be part of a shooting down in the warehouse district; both incidents keeping the police force busy most of the night.

It was only early the next morning that two cars pulled up near the wreckage of two cars in the same alley where the shooting had occurred. The police carefully approached the two cars. On the ground near the first one a dead man was stretched out. Almost directly in front of him was a small puddle of blood underneath the second car door. Talking excitedly into their phones, they followed a faint trail of blood for several blocks until it had faded to the point of being untraceable. Frustrated, they returned to the scene to begin gathering evidence.

* * *

 

Paz stared blearily at the bottle in his hand. He couldn't recall exactly how much painkiller he had injected himself with, but in any case, he was definitely feeling light-headed. He swept his hand across the floor trying to locate the bandages and tape strewn there, all the while blinking back the tears that sprang to his eyes with the movement: with both arms shot, one in the hand and the other in the shoulder, pretty well any movement was torture. An inspection in a mirror had revealed the bullet had gone cleanly through his shoulder, so that was one thing less to worry about. The mirror had also revealed that somewhere in the fight, his jaw had been popped back into its normal spot, and he could now move it again with only a little pain.

Locating what he was looking for, he picked up a package of rolled bandages, broke the protective wrapping with his teeth, removed the paper towel he had laid over his arm after washing it in a sink, and started the painstaking process of wrapping his injured arm. Except for a little twitching and a dull throb, he could not feel or move his wrist and fingers.

When he was finished, he maneuvered a nylon cast on. Finally, it was finished, and with a sigh of relief he let both arms drop into his lap. Exhausted by his work, he leaned his head back against the shelf and let oblivion overtake him.

* * *

 

Both the sky and the water were a stunning shade of crystal blue as the ferry steamed slowly onward to Corsica.  
There were many passengers this time of day, jostling each other at the rails and chattering loudly at the bars.

It seemed only one person didn't join in the lighthearted spirit aboard. He was sitting silently and totally still on one of the chairs on deck, wearing a drawn hoodie even though the day was delightfully warm. Several passengers attempted to lightheartedly draw him into their conversation, but his chilly looks quickly convinced them otherwise.

As the ship approached port he got up stiffly and joined the crowds at the deck; only a few people closest to him noticed the fear in his eyes as he continually scanned the crowds ashore.

Coming off the gangplank, he stumbled and would have fallen had he not quickly steadied himself with one hand. The crowds surged around him after he made no move to rise to his feet.

A gentleman stopped to ask if he needed any assistance, but his words died away as he got a view of the man's pasty white face. As he grabbed the man's arm to help him up, he was baffled by the continual torrent of curses the man gasped out. After helping him over to a bench, he hastily left, bewildered by the man's strange behavior and seeming ingratitude.

* * *

The hot late afternoon sun cast its long shadows over the simple white building. The building itself was nestled among the quiet roads, removed from any town, and surrounded with brown scrub and rolling hills. Very few cars ever drove by, and even if they had, they would have missed the small house and outbuilding hidden behind a rise in the hills.

The brown main door hung open, emitting a slight breeze that failed to alleviate the oppressive heat.

Upstairs a fan blew continually in a room overlooking the road, also failing in its feeble attempts to cool the air. It did, however, provide slight relief to the two occupants of the room.

Cornelius Turner had worked several years as a general surgeon in Corsica. His reasons were simple: he was wanted for murder in Spain and had arrest warrants in several other countries. He lived virtually undisturbed here among the hills, tending to various shady characters that graced his doorway from time to time.

He rarely feared for his life. Although his patrons often knew who he was, they respected him for his job, and therefore, he was safe; protected by other people also fearful of the law. But today, he was scared.

Scared of the man that sat silently in front of him, watching his every move, his brown eyes all the while appraising him. Scared for what the man would do after he had finished tending his wounds.

He did not know who the man was, but the man still somehow radiated hostility and commanded respect, wounded as he was. Cornelius avoided his steady gaze as he pulled back the plunger of the needle, filling it with a general anesthetic.  
"Stop."  
Cornelius lifted his face to meet the man's unwavering gaze.  
"That's all, no more."  
Cornelius looked down at the syringe and sighed inwardly. Sure, he had planned to give the man a little more than necessary, but it was only for his own self-preservation. How had he known?  
When the man lowered the gun he had in his hand slightly, Cornelius moved forward and injected it into his arm. After giving it a little time to take action, he started working on the arm and hand. For two hours he worked; sweat constantly dripping down his brow as he tried to ignore the gun held steady in the other man's hand.

He had worked on the shoulder first, cleaning and re-bandaging it. It had already started to heal, and the man would regain full mobility of it. The hand he was not so confident of. It took all of his expertise to sew up the wound. Muscles and tendons had been damaged; and only time would tell if he could fully use his arm and hand again.

Both men were silent during that time, both too occupied in their own worlds to attempt conversation. The only interruption was the occasional sharp intake of breath when the doctor probed too deep.

The sun was setting as Cornelius put in the last stitch. He wanted to get up and stretch, but he sat patiently as the man rummaged through his supplies, putting some in a small bag he'd brought with him.

Cornelius fully expected him to kill him, and was surprised when the man instead dropped a few dirty bills on the table and melted off into the shadows.

* * *

Thirteen-year-old Maria loved helping her grandmother in her small store. And no wonder, for her grandmother had been blind for almost as long as Maria could remember. Today, Maria was counting out a wad of bills a strange-looking man had handed over the counter. She stacked them neatly as she counted, proud that she was old enough to do such an important job for her grandmother. "Is it all there?" the old lady whispered behind her from her perch on a wooden stool.  
"Yes, all here." Maria replied, tucking the money away.  
Her grandmother handed her a set of keys which Maria in turn gave to the man.  
"Show him the way," her grandmother commanded.  
Maria cast a shy glance at the man, then skipped out the door ahead of him. He followed slowly, taking his time as they walked uphill on an overgrown path.

Situated on a hill, hidden from sight, but with a surprisingly good vantage point, was a small house with peeling white paint.  
They were both puffing as they reached the door.  
"Here you are," Maria announced. "No one's stayed here for a long while, but it's a nice house."  
The man grunted his thanks and gave her a few coins. Maria happily took off for the safety of home as the man turned to unlock the door.

Paz flicked on a light switch as he crossed the narrow hallway into the living space of the house. The old lady had assured him it was clean, but she hadn't mentioned dusting it, and a glance from him took in a thick layer of it on everything.

He tossed the two stolen wallets onto the table and the gun he had picked up from one of the men he had shot beside them. He was exhausted, but he knew sleep would not come, only nightmares. He restlessly paced the small house, until, unable to take the oppressive heat any longer, he slipped out the door and followed a nearly overgrown path that led from the back of the house.

It brought him down to a small inlet from the ocean. Although the many rocks along the shoreline prevented him from reaching the water, the sight was soothing and he sat down on the hard ground and stared into the water. The fight a few days ago had been the closest he'd ever gotten to death. The realization did not frighten him; instead it only galvanized his determination to live; to taunt them with their inability to silence one of their own.

A soft wind from the ocean cooled his angry thoughts and made him feel better. Realising nearly an hour had passed; he got up and returned to the house. Plopping down on a couch, he rested his throbbing arms on a pillow. With his gun in reach, he drifted off to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Two months later…**

It was near midnight on a warm late summer night. The island of Corsica was largely dark and silent.

The peace was interrupted by the low thrum of a boat motor as it winded its way around the rocky outcroppings of the coast. Its progress was very slow, mainly to keep the engine noise to a minimum, but also to avoid the many rocks as they grew nearer to shore.

Finally, it came to a complete standstill, and two figures moved onto the deck. Through night vision goggles they surveyed a house nearly hidden by the rise of the hills.

After several minutes had elapsed, they moved a bit, apparently attempting to get a better view. They tried to draw nearer to shore, but once again, the rocks prevented them, and eventually giving up, the boat floated away again.

They had not gone completely unnoticed however. Unbeknownst to them, a figure lying flat on the roof had watched their every move as they had stood on the boat deck, partially illuminated by moonlight.

The figure now retreated indoors and soon a light was put on, although its outside influence was hindered by thick shutters.

The next morning, a dark green Jeep pulled up to a rambling store/house that was sadly starting to show signs of neglect. Two men got out and walked up to it. Their knock on the door was answered by a pretty dark haired girl, probably twelve or thirteen. They spoke for a few minutes, then an older woman appeared and spoke with them, and after much gesturing and explaining, they turned away.

Two more men appeared from the Jeep, and the small group followed a narrow path that wound up and around a hill. It was a good ten minutes' climb and they stopped to rest a moment upon reaching the crest.

Carefully, almost hesitantly, they approached the small white building settled overlooking the sea. Looking around to be sure they were not being observed, they drew guns and approached the door. They entered the house, cautiously checking each room as they went.

The house was deserted, just as the women had tried to explain, saying that early that morning, the man had left the key on the counter in the store and disappeared. Looking frustrated, the men in the Jeep left hurriedly.

Paz let his fingers dangle in the warm water. The bright sun and gentle breeze made him feel lazy and relaxed. The fisherman looked over his shoulder to see if he was doing ok, then turned around again.  
Paz sat up straighter as the Corsican shoreline faded completely from view.  
Next stop: Italy

Although the streets were narrow and steep, they were still crowded with tourists and locals even as the sun started its descent. Paz mingled with the thinning crowd, all senses alert as he was jostled by several young people. He knew little Italian and struggled to understand the lighthearted teasing directed at him. He stopped, tilting his face upwards, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the shuttered houses lining the streets. He started walking again, turning back once to cast his gaze again at the silent row of buildings.

Later, in the small motel room, he watched the shadows flitting across the ceiling. He had been dozing, but something had woken him. The small clock read 1:34 am. He moved his left hand across the smooth sheets, only a slight frown creasing his face at the movement, and picked a gun; the Beretta he'd taken after the gunfight. Holding it close to his face to see it in the darkened room, he checked it once more. He'd already done it half a dozen times that evening, but it always reassured him... for a little while. It was still the same amount of bullets- 6.

Swinging his long legs over the side of the bed, he got up and parted the curtain just enough to look down on the street. His gaze followed a row of parked cars as far as the dim street lighting permitted, until it came to rest on a van. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized it… and as a familiar feeling came over him, he uneasily turned from the window. He silently left the room, making his way down the darkened hallways. His ears picked up the nearly muffled sound of a door closing. He quickened his pace until he was nearly running.

Coming upon a small common room with a balcony, he went outside, then turned and started pulling himself up the side of the building. His muscles strained as he struggled for a grip. The roof loomed above him, but his grasp was wavering, his left arm not able to take the strain. He made a grab for the edge of the roof and managed to hold on, pulling the rest of his body over the side. He was on his feet in a moment, breathing heavily, but safe.

He made his way over to the opposite side of the roof, searching for a way down. There were only several balconies, no fire escape. He dangled his legs over the side and let himself drop. He grunted as he made contact with the balcony, knocking his breath out against the railing.

Pulling himself up again, he looked over the edge at the alley; it was deserted.

He climbed over the railing and let himself hang in midair for a second before letting go.

He hit the ground with a thud, rolling to one side. He sat up immediately and set off, limping.

Two blocks away, he felt nervous prickles starting up his back. Without turning, he knew they had caught up to him. Without changing his pace, he kept going. He wished for daylight and the full streets that it would bring. He ducked down another street; drawing his gun.

He jumped at the silenced report of a gun followed by a shower of stone as the bullet embedded itself in the wall beside him. He dropped to his knees, and started crawling backwards; shaking with rage at the realization that they'd been waiting for him. He crouched besides the narrow opening of the street, waiting.

In his mind he steeled himself; after his last run-in, he was through with playing evasive with the agency; this was ending here.

* * *

He was able to catch the first man off guard, grabbing the raised gun in his hands, and slamming it back into his face, knocking him out.

The next man instinctively let off a silenced shot, only to have his gun shot right out of his hands. Paz grabbed the stunned man in a chokehold, wheeling both of them around the corner of the street… and right into the path of two men holding silenced pistols.

In an instant, both the men _and_ Paz had fired.

Paz nailed one of the men, while one of their bullets inadvertently hit their partner in Paz's grip. Paz's left arm was shaking now with the strain, and it felt wooden. He dropped the groaning man and shot the last man twice in the chest.

He stopped only long enough to grab their guns, and then took off in the opposite direction.

He slowed to a walk once he came out on another street. He turned to the left, and ducked beside a parked car; wincing as the next second the car window exploded and glass shards rained over him.

Cursing the sniper, he crawled forward, trying to protect himself behind parked cars. He tried to gauge the origin of the shots, but whoever it was had been careful to use a flash suppressor.

Crouching motionless in his spot, the seconds ticked by slowly… too slowly for Paz. Sweat dripped down his face and he subtly shifted his weight. His left arm had started to throb after he had used it to contain the man.

He was acutely aware of any little sounds: sirens in the distance, a door creaking on its hinges, a car backfiring, someone shouting.

In the distance, he heard a car approaching. Was it a civilian or more members of the hit team? he wondered. The car continued approaching, but Paz couldn't risk raising his head to scrutinize it. He crawled forward until he was parallel with an alley. He counted silently in his mind as the car kept coming closer. When he was certain it was nearly upon him, he made a dash for the alley, counting on the sniper to not reveal himself to view.

He was lucky: the car passed by just then, and he faded into the darkness before the sniper had refocused.

From his vantage point sitting on the roof of the abandoned building, Paz watched the sun coming up. He didn't know the last time he'd been able to appreciate something so beautiful.

_Himself as a little boy...how young he didn't know. He relaxed as strong arms picked him up. Soft Portuguese words floated around him as he was carried out onto a sun drenched balcony. The bright sunrise blinded him, and he buried his face in the soft arms that held him._

Sunrise…that's what had been whispered in his ears that day. But as for who the person was holding him, he didn't know. Was it his father… mother… sibling… grandparent?  
Why could he never remember faces or names?

Sitting in the sunlight wasn't jogging his memory, so he got up and returned to street level. Joining in the thick crowds, he boarded a train headed south. It had barely left the station before Paz regretted his decision. His regret came in the form of two obviously American men engrossed in their phones which they wisely held over their faces like shields.  
Paz moved into another car which was slightly fuller. He found a seat near the door. The ticket collector had barely passed when out of the corner of his eye he saw the two men approaching. He sat stiffer, forcing himself to not make eye contact. They took seats a small distance behind him. He waited a few minutes, then nonchalantly got up and went into the car they'd just left. Even though there were empty seats, he stood by the door, wedged in between a business man and an older lady. At the next stop, he got off.

Without looking behind him, he walked until he found a bathroom. He went into a stall and locked the door, climbing onto the seat. To keep himself calm, he counted off the minutes in his head. He had gotten to three and a half before the door opened. He heard the steps pace back and forth for a moment, than the sound of stall doors being pushed open. His was the last one. The door moved slightly, then stopped.

Paz took a deep breath; aimed his gun at a foot partially visible under the door and fired. The pained screech and heavy thud announced his shot had found its mark. He emptied the remainder of his clip through the door.

Dropping the empty pistol, he pulled the next one out of his pocket, than covered his face as return fire pelted the tiny stall. He let off another round through the destroyed door and the firing stopped.

He pushed the door; it promptly fell off its hinges, and, gun raised, he surveyed his damage. By the looks of it, he'd killed two and seriously wounded the others. He opened the door to the outside and was immediately clocked on the side of the head by a fist.

He fell to the floor, losing his gun in the process, but had enough presence of mind to kick his assailant's legs out from under him. He punched the downed man, who gave him a solid punch in return. From out of nowhere, a solid kick connected with his ribs, and he gasped and rolled over. Wheezing for air, he forgot all secrecy and yanked the last gun from his coat pocket.

Waving the gun at them, there was a moment of shocked silence, then a terrified scream from somewhere, "He's got a gun!

The men in front of him looked shocked also, even though all of them had their own hands in their pockets.

Paz waved the gun threateningly back and forth, terrified people scurrying out of the way. He backed up, daring the men to shoot him in broad daylight. They didn't, not moving as he backed out of the station. Once outside in the blinding sunlight, he turned and ran.


	9. Chapter 9

The blinding sun beat down on Paz as he pounded down the street. People scattered out of his way, and cars honked angrily as they narrowly missed him.

In the background, he heard the all too familiar sounds of sirens. As he slowed slightly to go around some pedestrians, he took the opportunity to look over his shoulder. He was not surprised when he was unable to spot any of his pursuers. It was just as well, he knew they'd catch up with him soon anyway.

The door creaked loudly as Paz strained to slide it open. Slipping through the narrow opening, he found himself in the cool and rather musty interior of an old building. Sunlight filtered in through a row of windows placed high along the wall, and the dirty cement walls blocked out most of the street noise. He paced nervously back and forth the length of the building, noting only one other small door and a set of broken stairs that led up.

He stopped and ran his hands over his face. Even though he had little doubt that he would not leave that building alive that day, somehow it didn't motivate him to greater resolution to live; all he knew was that he was tired… very tired. And yet, though all the ingrained training in him, he knew he wasn't going down without a fight.

* * *

For the second time that day, the door creaked as it was gently pushed open. First came the silenced barrel of a gun, followed by a person. The gun waved back and forth as the person checked his surroundings. Satisfied that it was all clear, he motioned behind him and several other men entered.

A slight noise set them on alert and they simultaneously jerked their guns upwards to meet the cold gaze of someone they had long hunted.

Paz's first shots downed two men and sent the rest scattering for cover, which, unfortunately, was almost non-existent. Their return fire embedded itself in the wood floor around Paz but failed to hit him.

Paz let off two more shots, then rolled to the side, and wriggled backwards. Avoiding a large gap in the rotting floor, he inserted another mag and shot through the hole in the floor. From his point in the second story, he had the clear advantage, and they knew it.

Paz got to his knees as a bullet ricocheted mere inches from his face and another sent wood chips flying everywhere.

He backed up again, and let off two more shots, then rolled over again, and getting up, dashed across the floor, avoiding the many holes.

He stopped suddenly, and dropped to his stomach just as a bullet whined by his face. Inching along the floor, he let off another shot, which was immediately answered.

The men below had fanned out, hiding behind whatever afforded protection. Paz fired down, and a man darted out from behind his cover long enough to return fire. One body lay motionless beside the door.

Paz let off another shot, and managed to hit another man who emerged. He crawled away to another spot to do it all over again.

After the grim cat-and-mouse game had gone on for nearly two hours, it came to a complete standstill. The men had ceased shooting at Paz, knowing that it was futile; not realizing that Paz was nearly out of ammo. They crouched in the shadows, waiting patiently.

Meanwhile, Paz was getting tired. Trapped on the upper story, impatience was setting in.

The sun abruptly went behind the clouds, and in an instant, the whole building was darkened.

The silence was unnerving. Paz laid flat, ears straining, waiting. Blood from a shrapnel cut trickled down his cheek, mixing with the sweat pouring down his face. His left arm lay limp at his side, having tired a long time ago.

Scraping and shuffling alerted him the gunmen were changing positions, likely looking for an opening.

As Paz inserted his last clip, the sun abruptly poured in again through the windows, revealing two men almost directly beneath him. He rolled over and suddenly the ground dropped away.

He frantically grabbed for a hold as his legs and lower torso dropped though the hole in the floor: a perfect target for the men below.

Paz lost his grip and crashed downwards. He landed on his side with a dull thud, his gun spiraling into the air and skittering off into the darkness.

For several moments, it was silent; Paz's pained gasps as he struggled for breath being the only sound.

"Get your hands up!" shouted a slightly frenzied burly gunman halfway across the room, breaking the spell. Immediately, all the gunmen surrounded him.

Paz struggled into a slightly more upright position moments before a booted foot caught him square in the side.

With a grunt, Paz fell back down again, instinctively curling himself into a ball as he felt a sharp stab of pain in his side. Another kick hit his lower back, then another at his hands, which were clenched in front of his chest. He jerked his head back as a black shoe met his face with a crunch.

Paz was shaking uncontrollably by now, and with every painful breath he took, there were sharp jabs of pain in his side.

When a man made the mistake of getting too close to him, Paz snapped.

He made a sudden grab at the leg, latching on, and heaving the man to the ground. Anger pouring through him, he was able to punch the man twice in the face before another man grabbed him and pulled him off.

Paz kicked out at the man who had grabbed him and managed to bloody his nose before receiving a vicious punch in his face that sent him spinning backwards. Blood running down his face, Paz stumbled to his feet and clumsily rammed another man.

They both fell in a heap, but Paz was on top and punched him several times as hard as he could, which, admittedly, was not very hard.

He felt his arms grabbed, and then he was pulled off the other man, and shoved roughly on the floor. There was a crushing weight on his chest as the men held him down. He struggled, but he was lying on his good arm, and his other arm didn't have enough strength to push the men off him.

Catching sight of a knife hanging off the belt of one of the men, he maneuvered himself trying to get a hold of it. Dodging a punch aimed for his head, he snagged the knife. The men caught sight of what he was doing, but too late; Paz shoved himself up and boldly stabbed one of them.

The man gave him a startled look as he grabbed his stomach and staggered backwards. Still clenching the knife, Paz got up and lunged at the other man. The man leaped backwards, but not before Paz sliced his arm.

Another man kicked Paz's feet out from under him, and he crashed to the floor again. He slashed savagely at the men as they tried to grab him.

Another man produced his own knife and advanced menacingly. Paz took a step backwards, still waving the knife. The men advanced again, still wary of the obviously tiring and wounded man standing in front of them.

As they kept advancing, Paz kept retreating. Breathing heavily, he still waved the bloody knife even as he sensed the wall coming up behind him.

The men stopped as Paz bumped gently into the cement wall. He was trapped.

The first knife jab missed, denting the sharp tip on the unyielding cement wall. Paz returned the favor, cutting deep into the other man's shoulder. A cut across his face split open the skin and sent him reeling backwards against the wall.

He still gripped the knife and made one last attack, but his aim was wildly off and his hand was immediately gripped and twisted to the side. A punch to his stomach made him double over with a groan, but they didn't allow him to fall; holding him up, they gathered around and proceeded to relentlessly pummel him. Paz struggled wildly at first, but it served to no purpose, only angering his attackers more.

The attack went on for quite a while. The perspiring men finally slowed, then stopped their work and stepped back, letting Paz's limp body fall unceremoniously to the ground.

* * *

Early the next morning, police responded to reports of an unusual commotion down among some old buildings in an abandoned district. There had been a group of unfamiliar men that had arrived, and had only left several hours later. They had appeared to carry something out also. Wary of drug dealers, quite a large group of police had showed up. When they cautiously opened the old door, they were surprised at the disorder that greeted them.

Littered around the shadowy room were old crates and boxes, and chunks of the wood flooring that composed the second story were strewn about. Most shocking of all was the scene of what had probably been a fight near the back of the building. There were droplets of blood all over the ground, and a liberal amount of it splattered on the back wall. Careful examination of the scene also revealed copious bullet holes and spent shells.

* * *

Paz lay motionless on his side against the cool wall of the cell. He couldn't remember much of the last few days; it was all a haze of pain and people's voices, constant voices. Now it had been quiet for a while, and he was feeling strangely alert. He had no desire to move, feeling cemented in spot.  
And besides, he already knew how he would feel if he strained even the smallest muscle. It would be like getting hit by a truck, never mind that, it would be like being hit by a cement truck…fully loaded…going eighty miles an hour.

He'd tried getting up yesterday, or was it two days ago? He couldn't remember; all he knew was the ground came rushing back pretty fast. Now he had another bruise on his already swollen face. Come to think of it, he hadn't realised his face had been swollen until now. Now that he was thinking on it, he definitely felt the heat and pain. He wanted to groan, to cry out, but it would take too much effort, and he had no will to do so.

As the minutes went by, Paz started feeling worse and worse. The sensation was of his whole body coming to life, only to find that every fibre of his body had been seared with a hot iron. His body started shaking as the pain grew and grew until he thought he would explode. A solitary tear escaped his eyes and tickled its way down his face.

His misery was interrupted by the jarring sound of the door being opened, admitting two men. Paz shut his eyes, feigning sleep. One man stood by the door, while the other knelt beside him.  
"I'd almost forgotten about you," the man chuckled to himself while he appeared to search through his pocket for something.  
The man at the door grunted in derision. "After what he did, I wish you  _would_  have forgotten him. The agency is furious at all the damage he caused. And still they stupidly insist they have a plan for him. It would have been much simpler to finish him off while we had the chance."

The man beside Paz murmured in agreement, then Paz felt the prick of a needle in his arm.  
"Whatever they have in mind for him, you can keep him drugged 'til they figure out just what kind of plan they have for him," the man beside Paz said as he got to his feet again.

He risked opening his eyes as they left. One looked familiar in dark clothing and tactical boots, while the other wore a white lab coat.

Soon a relaxed feeling came over Paz. He stopped shaking as his pain faded away in the background, along with the memory of his awakening moments; leaving only hazy memories of people and places in its spot.


	10. Chapter 10

"You've got to be kidding me." The words were sharp and unbelieving; coming from a rotund man in a suit standing in front of a tiny glass window looking into a small cell.  
"I come here on reports of this madman who's doing more collateral damage than Bourne, and what do I find?"

The man behind him coughed politely.  
"Sir, he's been on drugs since he came to keep him from attacking us."

The other man snorted derisively, "I'll tell the agency they're better off disposing of him quietly. You say questioning hasn't revealed anything?"

The other man nodded. "His mind is all confused; even on drugs, he hasn't revealed anything useful. All he mentions is Bourne and a bunch of other names." He paused a moment, as if uncertain to go on, then continued,  
"I think he may have had a sort of mental breakdown after he attacked two men who came into the cell the other day. It took at least half a dozen men to contain him. He's been strangely quiet ever since; even off drugs."

The large man turned and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. "I'll tell the agency about this. With the situation in Washington cooling down, they had a plan for him, but I'd recommend scrapping it."

Both men left the room; walking up set of steep cement stairs and out into the warm sunlight. The smaller man accepted the proffered cigarette and they stood silently for a while; lost in their own thoughts. The smaller man broke the silence first, dropping the spent cigarette in the dirt and crushing it under his scuffed tactical boot.  
"I hope you mentioned to them that a larger sum was agreed upon because of the… um… damage that was inflicted."

"Don't worry, it's all been arranged," the man promised as he settled a battered hat on his balding head.

They shook hands, then the big man left in a black BMW that was parked inside the courtyard.

 _ **1974**_ _. Nestled in someone's arms, his eyelids drooped as soft singing lulled him to sleep. In the background, a fan made swishing noises as it slowly oscillated. Suddenly awake again, he squirmed. Where was Lucia? He wanted her to play with him and his new blocks he'd received several weeks before as a present for his 2_ _nd_ _birthday._  
Suddenly there were shadows… voices… loud sounds. He strained to see, but was hindered by what seemed a dense cloud. There was the sharp intake of breath, then he was hurriedly deposited on the floor. He didn't mind, the worn wood floor was familiar and comfortable. He was reaching for some brightly colored wood blocks when the air was split with sharp, ringing noises. "Mama?" he fearfully inquired, getting to his feet. Tears threatened to spill from his dark eyes as he tottered along the floor toward the unmoving shape stretched out on the floor in front of him. In the background, he heard the terrified scream of his sister. More ear-splitting sounds came as he reached the shape. He jumped in alarm as their kitchen table was suddenly splintered and wood pieces cut his face.  
"Mama?!"

 _Mama._ Paz rolled the name around his mouth, liking the sound of it. He repeated it softly to himself.  _Mama_.

The men looked questioningly at the prisoner in front of them. With multiple scars and a disheveled appearance; he looked like someone not to fool with, but here he'd been muttering incoherently to himself for the last half hour. Shaking their heads, they handed him a stack of clean clothes.

Paz was lost in his own cogitations as he dressed.  _Mama, Lucia, Mama, Lucia…_ On and on it went. He stroked the soft blue material of the shirt sleeve. So soft, and the color was beautiful. The blue color stayed in the back of his mind, as if trying to remind him of something, but whatever it was stayed just out of his reach.  _Blue, Mama, Lucia, Blue, Mama, Lucia…_

He sat quietly as they blindfolded him; and walked obediently behind them as they led him. He stumbled over something: a cement step. Somewhere in the background, someone jerked him upright, but he took no notice as he brushed his fingers over the worn cement. Nevertheless, he carefully picked up his feet over the remainder of the steps.

He stalled once they reached ground level: unused to the bright sunlight. They goaded him forward towards a white van. A hint of apprehension bubbled up in him, but the rest of him was so relaxed that he didn't make a fuss. He had to be helped into the back, and once inside, was strapped to the cloth seat. Several other men clambered in also, and then the van moved off.

Paz sat silently; unaware of the talk going on around him, his fingers busily tracing the whorls in his hands.

He had little sense of time, but the ride went on for at least an hour. When he was helped out of the back into the van, they were in a dim hanger overlooking a dusty tarmac set in the scrubby hills.

Several of the men had to help him across the unfamiliar pavement and up the steep steps into the back of the small plane. The pilots came from the hanger and the plane soon took off. Due to the blindfold, Paz couldn't see the scenery or his fellow passengers and the pilots were unable to see him either, as a curtain had been drawn across the back.

It was dark outside as the plane landed again at a private airstrip somewhere in Eastern Europe. Paz was quickly hurried onto a much larger plane and his journey continued.

* * *

Other than the distant thrum of the plane engines, it was quiet inside the plane. The men who were with Paz were all asleep, draped over the seats. Unbeknownst to Paz, they had also left the doctor behind at the last stop.

Paz stirred, then slowly raised his head. The blindfold was hot and itchy, and he wiggled his hands, trying to free them. There was a noise, and he went perfectly still. A few minutes passed, and when it was quiet again, he ducked his head and managed to shove the blindfold up a few inches. His eyes blinked furiously as they became accustomed to the light again. He was tired and thirsty, but his bigger concern was how he'd managed to get to where he was. He had little recollection of the long trip, and didn't know what time it was either.

He didn't recognize the men, and wondered why they were with him. Although he didn't know why, he vaguely felt the urge to attempt to get up and away from them. He considered the idea for several minutes, then shuffled his feet and got up. They were tied together, however, and he immediately lost his balance and pitched forward. His tied hands softened his fall onto the seats opposite him, but the sound woke the men, and with a shout, they turned on him.

Startled- though not angry- Paz turned, promptly tripped, and fell forward, hitting his head on the side of a small cabinet. He lay there stunned, blood trickling from a small cut on the side of his head.

The men pulled him up and set him securely back on the seat. As they cleaned the cut, Paz started shaking uncontrollably.

"Someone get him a blanket!" the man closest to him commanded.

"Must be withdrawal from his meds", one observed coldly.

"Maybe," the man beside him corrected, "but more likely shock from the fall."

Someone was kind enough to hunt down a blanket and after wrapping him in it, someone produced medication, and Paz was soon drugged again.

* * *

It was raining steadily when the plane landed in Hong Kong. There were two Lexus SUV's waiting for the passengers. Everyone was soaked before the cars pulled out of airport and joined the heavy traffic. The long ride was uneventful. Paz was calm and very quiet again. The men talked nervously amongst themselves the whole ride.

It was past midnight by the time the two vehicles stopped in front of a tall cement apartment building. Paz was quickly pulled out of the car and out from the glow of the bright street lights and into the cool and dark confines of the building. A dirty elevator that barely held all of them took them up thirty-six floors.

* * *

Paz absently pushed the cold rice around the plate. He disliked bland, cold, and especially, clumpy food. The calendar on the wallpapered wall behind him told that he'd been here two weeks.

He'd been strangely unprotected here; sure, he didn't know that the tall glasses of water they always brought him were enhanced, that there were cameras in every corner, or that the windows were all barred.

He had the whole room to himself; the other two rooms in the apartment were occupied by the other men who were still with him.

* * *

He also didn't know of the war going on about him a continent away. On the one hand were those who knew he'd exceeded any useful purpose he might have served before.

On the other hand, there were those who knew that another man they greatly desired was merely a few blocks away from the grungy building that housed Paz right now. They were content to bide their time and continue with a plan that they'd been working on for the better part of three months. In their own words, it was a chance to 'kill two birds with one stone."

* * *

Paz sensed something important was about to happen. Through the thin walls, he could hear constant coming and going. There was talking late into the nights and early the next mornings.

One morning, he was allowed to shower and was given a new change of clothing. Other than a dark pair of pants there was a white t-shirt and a grey hoodie. He couldn't shave, so he kept his bushy beard and nearly-shoulder length hair.

That evening, he followed his handlers out of the apartment and down to ground level; responding obediently to all orders whispered to him by the two men behind him as they walked down the crowded streets.

There was an hour-long ride in the Lexus that brought them halfway across the city and to a sprawling stadium complex.

Paz was bewildered, but compelled to listen to the instructions repeated slowly to him. Then he was handed a small black gun, and let out of the car.

After several weeks of captivity, freedom was surprisingly unexciting. He knew exactly what he needed to do, and nothing; not even his own thoughts buried deep in his head, would stop him.


	11. Chapter 11

The stadium was packed tonight, with unprecedented numbers of people showing up for the last game of the season. Situated above the crowds were private rooms for those who could afford them.

In one of these rooms was a small group of people. Incidentally, none of them were paying attention to the game unfolding below them. Seated around a glass table with drinks in hand, they were listening intently to a rugged looking man with brown hair.  
"I think it's far-fetched," a handsome black-haired man interrupted the speaker. "I do not think they would go to such extreme measures against me. After all, I am insignificant compared to others."

"It doesn't matter what you think," the speaker countered in his blunt American accent. "I know what I'm talking about. If I didn't think you were in danger, I wouldn't have wasted my time coming over here.  
I tell you; they're very interested in what you're trying to do." He sat back, his blue eyes boring into the other men.

"Our country has long waited for independence," the black-haired man spoke again in his clipped British accent. "The States has nothing to lose by recognizing us. It would be too obvious if they attempted something against me."

* * *

 

Two floors below them, Paz strode down a quiet hallway. Using the access card hanging around his neck, he got on an elevator and pushed the desired floor number.

When the doors opened, his gun was already raised. Noting his surroundings were clear, he pocketed the gun and moved silently through a small vestibule and into a large room crowded with spectators.

As he walked through the large throng, a lightheaded feeling came over him. He stopped and looked around dizzily at the people in a new light. His footsteps quickened until he was in another hall.

His clammy hands shook as he pulled the gun out of his pocket. He looked closely at it; where exactly had it come from?

He knew he had a mission to do, even though he couldn't remember the details of it.

As if in a dream, he stopped in front of a fogged glass door.

Without even stopping to prepare himself, he kicked the door in and mowed down two men standing directly in front of him.

His gun was already trained on a dark-haired man standing in front of a table. Even as two shots left the barrel and sent the man spinning backwards against the wall, his eyes were locked on another man in the room. Their eyes bored into each for a split second- the shocked blue ones and the confused brown ones- then Paz wheeled round and shot him once. He would have shot him again, but the gun clicked on empty, and realization had by now come to Paz.

Pocketing the gun, he fled the scene. Sprinting down the hallway, alarms already going off, Paz knew he'd been set up. The gun with the half empty mag, no silencer, a busy stadium: all pointed to the fact. In his still-vague mind, he couldn't completely comprehend the consequences.  
One image, however, stood clearly above the rest; the man he'd confronted… and shot:  _Bourne.  
_

* * *

Shouting behind him shook him from his reverie. He turned to confront several security guards. On another day, he might have fought them, but today even the sight of them cowed him and he turned and fled again.

They cornered him, but his frayed nerves gave him the ability to break away.

Using the access card, he found his way on the roof. Knowing they'd soon be up there, he contemplated jumping, but at the last moment, peering over the edge to the vast darkness below; he couldn't.

Instead, he took a wild leap into the dark, coming down several feet away on another building. Too scared to even walk upright, he crawled over the rough cement to the access stairs.

Naturally, they were locked, and he ended up clinging to the edge of the building as he attempted to get down.

His fingers grasping the thin ledge, he maneuvered slowly downwards. He had never liked heights, and this was almost enough to stall him in terror. A cold wind whipped around him, and his left arm's grasp started to slip.

He swung out slightly into the abyss, then swung back in again, crashing through the tall glass windows of the building.

Heart pounding and a cold sweat soaking him, he sneaked through the darkened corridors. It was only moments before alarms went off again. Paz broke a fire extinguisher out of its case and crept forward. The security guard who burst through the door last remembered a large red cylinder flying towards him.

Paz picked up the fire extinguisher beside the unconscious man and after taking his access card, ran.  
  


The expansive foyer was dim in the late hours of the evening. A lone security guard lounged in a corner which granted him full view of the entrance.

When the alarms went off, he got up and paced the room, contemplating whether to investigate or stay and confront whoever might try to escape this way. A sound sent him running to the far corner of the foyer.  
"Anyone here?" he called out in broken English.

Paz almost stepped out of the shadows, but was scared enough to grip his dented fire extinguisher and stay hidden until the man turned around. Now that the man couldn't look directly at him, he had enough nerve to come out of his hiding place and whack the guard squarely over the head.

He left the building through a service door and headed down the darkened streets.

* * *

 

The sun was already sinking behind the tall facades of the buildings as a lone figure got off a subway. Instead of using the escalator to get to ground level, he walked along the platforms for a distance. The scenery gradually changed to dirty corridors and dim rooms.

Two tough-looking characters approached the figure. They stopped in front of him; arms folded threateningly over their chests. The man meekly looked downwards; only to whirl around and hit the first man with a backhanded blow. He man stumbled back, and the lone man punched his partner, who returned the blow. The lone man was obviously more experienced, however, and soon both of the men were sprawled out on the floor rubbing bruised chins. He gave both of them a meaningful look before striding off.

He stopped in front of a closed door. Finding it unlocked, he slowly nudged it open.  
"No closer or I'll shoot."  
The man stopped, unable to see inside. He sighed and stuffed his hands in his coat pocket. He tentatively took a step forward. When there was nothing from inside, he took another step inside and closed the door behind him. It was a room typical of the surroundings: filthy and dim.  
Sitting on a chair on the far side of the room was a man, and, just as he had suspected, the gun in the other man's hand was not pointed at his head, but at the other man's.  
"You?!" the other man gasped. His hand started shaking, "I killed you!"

"Obviously not," he calmly stated as he unbuttoned his shirt far enough to reveal a bulletproof vest.

The other man was shaking uncontrollably by now. "I'm a dead man anyway."

"No, you're not... at least, not yet." Bourne leaned against the door, but lowered his gun. Noting the other gun also lowering several inches, he started,  
"I thought we were all payed up in New York… I thought I could go and live my life in peace. Was that too much to ask? To be left alone? I let you live, you let me get away, and now this?" Bourne's tone was slowly but surely rising. "You're all the same; you play nicely until I turn my back. How long have you been following me?"

Paz sat submissively, head bowed, absorbing the angry words, but not replying.

"What's up with you?! Talk!"  
Bourne paused.  
"I should kill you right now… but… she wouldn't have wanted it." Bourne sighed, deflated. "I thought Blackbriar was finished… how many more of you  _are_ there?"

There was dead silence for several long minutes. Paz had laid the gun down on the bed and was waiting. Bourne scrutinized the other man, then lowered himself carefully onto a chair and started talking again.

"You look totally different than the last time I saw you… over a year ago, in New York. Now with your long hair and beard, you actually look like someone else." Moving slowly, he pulled an old photo from his breast pocket. "See these two men? One of them is- I think- my father. The other man?" he turned the picture towards the other man, who, in spite of himself, leaned forwards a few inches. The picture showed two middle aged men in suits, who appeared to be colleagues. One was an American, but the other man was slightly darker skinned and had longer hair and a beard, typical of the fashions of the '70's. Bourne turned the photo over and read out loud the penciled words scribbled on the back.  _R.W and V. T, '73_

The other man appeared confused, but said nothing.

"So you can imagine my surprise, when barely two weeks after receiving this picture from a good friend, I'm confronted by a man who bears a striking resemblance. In fact, if I hadn't gotten the picture, I would have already turned you over to the police." He put the picture away and waited.

Paz turned away. "What do you want?" he muttered quietly.

"An explanation would be nice, for starters." Bourne said sarcastically.  
"Do you know the people in the picture?"

"I don't have the answers to any of your questions," Paz admitted slowly, then started going over his story and before he knew it, the whole account was coming out.

"Ever since New York, I've been running from the agency; I couldn't shake them off… I was in England… France… I hid out in some guy's apartment, but they found me there too where I got this…" He rolled the left sleeve of his sweater up, showing the mottled scars and disfigured skin. "I probably ruined the guy's life too… I laid low for two months, but they caught up to me again in Italy… The agency captured me there, and I don't know what they did to me, but all I remember is a small apartment here in Hong Kong and being brought across the city to the stadium. I somehow knew that I needed to find and take out someone, though I swear I didn't know you were going to be there.

I, ah… came to myself there, but it was too late. I admit I had been trying to find you since England, but it wasn't for the purpose of trying to kill you… I just wanted… answers. I don't know if there are any other Blackbriar people alive." He sighed and rubbed his face. "Kill me, I don't care. I'm damned anyway."

Bourne got up and walked across the room towards Paz. He scooped up Paz's gun and removed the mag.

"Interesting story I'll admit… I don't know whether to believe it or not. I do notice you have a whole new collection of scars, which speak for themselves. Your story  _sounds_ convincing, but how do I know you didn't purposefully lead the agency to me?"

Paz had never thought of it that way... had he really unwittingly led the agency straight to Bourne?

Had they been following him all these months, simply because they knew he'd eventually lead them to him?

The implications of that was serious… it meant that he really  _was_  at fault for what had happened.

He groaned in frustration, "I don't know...  _honestly!_ Who are the men in the picture; why did you show it to me?"

Bourne exhaled in surprise. "Where's a mirror when you need it?!" he muttered to himself. "Don't you see?"

He didn't take his eyes off Paz as he said: "You look like the second man, Victor Torres—who happens to live about forty miles from here!"

Excerpt from a report found on an analyst's desk in New York.

_**Plan A** _ _partial success. Targets are in contact with each other. Proceeding with next part of detail. Helicopter procured and awaiting orders._


	12. Chapter 12

Only a few keen people gave the two men leaving the subway a second glance.  
By the third flight of stairs, Paz was breathing unusually hard. Bourne looked closely at his pale face. "You on something?"

Paz grimaced. "Not anymore."

Bourne said nothing, only took Paz's elbow and guided him over to a group of seats. He disappeared in the crowds and returned minutes later with a water bottle. "Here; drink this and let's go."

Paz muttered his thanks, and took a sip.  
Bourne tapped his foot impatiently as Paz drank. Paz was only halfway through the bottle before Bourne stopped him.

"You can drink as we walk; com'on."

He strode off, not looking behind to see if Paz was coming.

Paz slowly followed Bourne through the crowd and out into the windy streets and the taxi Bourne flagged down. They both sat stiffly, not talking or even looking at each other.

The ride took them out of the city and into the sprawling countryside. The buildings gradually grew fewer in number and were replaced by rolling hills and lush forests.

Watching the scenery whip by was making Paz lightheaded, so he turned to Bourne. "Why?"

Bourne just looked at him.

"You could have taken the picture; found the guy, asked your questions, and maybe gotten your answers…you didn't need me. If you left me to the authorities, no one would have been any the wiser."

Bourne thought for a moment. "I know the yearning for answers to unspoken questions. You had no idea this man might be your father, but somewhere inside you, I'm  _sure_ you have questions. I couldn't live with the knowledge I'd deprived you of the same thing which continues to frustrate me… answers to my past."

Paz nodded and looked away. Despite the brain fog that hounded him, he'd try to keep his head down, follow whatever Bourne said, and –hopefully- get out alive.

* * *

The road wound around the verdant hills until it crested the top, showing off the beautiful scenery and the ocean, which was, at this moment, unsettled and foaming.

The taxi left them off at the bottom of an overgrown lane. Bourne led the way and Paz followed at a slower pace.

Paz's heart was thumping nervously in his chest as they reached the end of the road and emerged into a clearing. Crouching down, they took in the view. In front of them, situated alongside the edge of a steep hill, was a small tile-roof house. There was no lawn, only half-grown shrubbery that served to camouflage the house and a small outbuilding. It appeared deserted.

Bourne pulled Paz's gun out if his pocket, and handed it back to Paz, along with a new mag. "How're you feeling?" he asked suddenly.

Paz looked at him in surprise. "How do I feel?" He rubbed the spot on his head where the bullet had grazed him in New York. "I guess about as well as can be expected after being on behavior-altering pills for several weeks and being half gimp," he said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Bourne dipped his head in acquiescence and without a word, moved along the tree line towards the house while Paz covered him.

They made a pass around the whole house, noting a narrow path that led down the edge of the hill towards the water. When it appeared everything was clear, they moved towards the house.

This time Bourne motioned Paz to go first, which he did, climbing the steps and knocking on the door. There was no answer, and he moved the doorknob. When the door easily swung open, Paz jumped back, gun raised.

No one appeared, and casting Bourne a sheepish look, Paz slowly entered. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and when they did, there wasn't much to see. Even though it was the middle of the morning, the blinds over the two windows were still closed. A small kitchenette and battered table, two chairs, a cabinet and a closed door completed the look.

Sitting on the counter was an open jar half filled with ground coffee and beside it, a spoon. Flies were happily devouring a half-peeled banana on the table. Bourne had noticed this too and nodded at the closed door.

Paz walked across the floor, cursing it as it creaked loudly. This door was also unlocked and Paz swung it open.

Beside a small bed, an older man was stretched out in a pool of blood stemming from a large chest wound.  
Heart in his throat, Paz dropped to his knees beside the man.

"Is it him?" Bourne demanded as he quickly swept the room for the perpetrator.  
"I- I think so." Paz swallowed hard.  
He picked up a hand and, finding a pulse, turned the man's face towards him.  
He gasped.

It was like looking in a mirror and seeing himself forty years older.

Bourne crouched beside Paz and slapped the man's cheek none too lightly. The man's eyes fluttered open for a moment and he made a noise similar to a cough.

Paz grabbed a sheet off the bed and tried to stop the bleeding from the gaping wound even though he already knew it was too late to save him.

Bourne rolled the man to his side and cleared out his mouth. The man's eyes opened again and he tried to say something. Bourne pulled the picture out of his pocket and held above the man's face. "Do you know who this is?"

Recognition flickered in the man's eyes and he whispered something. Bourne swore under his breath and put his ear nearer the man's face.  
"…Victor Torrés… that's your name - that's you… that's you in the photo?"  
The man nodded.  
"Who's the other man?" Bourne asked, once again leaning closer to hear, still dangling the photo in the man's face.  
Paz was leaning close enough to catch the words.

"Richard… Webb… they killed him too."

"Who were you working for?" Paz probed.  
The man turned to look at Paz, but no recognition showed in his face.  
"Government."

Bourne was looking considerably enlightened. He went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water which he used to moisten the man's lips.

Gripped with a sense of urgency, Paz shook the man into consciousness again. "Did you have a son?"

The man stared mutely at him. He made a motion almost like a nod-or was it? - then his head moved to the side and his breathing faded away to nothing.

Paz rocked back on his heels and ground his teeth in frustration. Had this man really been his father?  
They'd been so close to finding answers, but all that was left was more questions.

Bourne squatted beside him looking just as disappointed for a moment, then gathered himself together and started digging vigorously through the closet. Paz wrapped the man in a blanket and with Bourne's help, laid him on the bed.

As they did so, Paz felt his foot bump something under the bed. He reached underneath it and pulled out a box. He dumped it unceremoniously on the floor and eagerly dug through it. It was nothing but odd mementos and papers. None of it shed any light on the man's history or why he'd been living like a recluse.

Bourne had finished with the closet and joined him on the floor. Paz piled the stuff back into the box and stood up.

His eyes followed the worn floorboards until they disappeared under a dusty rug. He moved the rug with his foot revealing an irregularity in the boards. He knelt down and pulled back the rug revealing a small knot-hole.

Paz wiggled the board and gradually it moved until he was able to pull it out, uncovering a small hole.

The only thing in it was a small plastic-wrapped wad of money. Disappointed, Paz was about to close up the hole again when, on an impulse, he felt around the rest of the nook.

His fingers touched something attached to the floorboards. He pulled out a brown pouch, also wrapped in plastic. He blew off a thick layer of dust and emptied it out as Bourne watched eagerly.

Inside was an old access card, a ring, and two photos. Paz held up the first photo to the light. On it was a smiling younger man with his arm around a pretty but serious-looking young woman. Her blonde hair contrasted sharply with the rest of the family. She held a dark-haired boy in her arms and a young girl held on to her skirt. He turned the picture over. On the back, written in fading pencil was  _Victor, Anais, Seb…_  the rest of the writing had rubbed off.

Paz peered closer; was that him in the picture, being held by the woman? He tried to recognize or feel a connection to the people, but there was nothing. They were complete strangers. He sighed heavily and handed the picture to Bourne.

The other picture was of a group of men. He had just spotted the man who called himself Victor in the back when Bourne snatched it out of his hand.

"That's the other man, Richard Webb; my father." Bourne said, emphasizing  _my father_ as if it was some strange new word. "Your  _Dad,_ if that's really who he was, and my dad must have been colleagues. Even worked together probably... And now they're both dead… and we're out of leads." His voice echoed the disappointment they both felt.

Bourne got up and left the room. Paz tucked the photos into his pocket along with the plain ring and held up the access card. It was a grainy picture of Victor and the address of an insurance company somewhere in China. He took that too, hoping it might be a lead.

The sound of gunfire broke the still air. Paz leaped to his feet and ran in the direction Bourne had gone.

Bourne was sprawled on the porch, trying to grab his pistol that had skittered several yards away. A man was running for the edge of the hill. Paz let off two poorly-aimed shots and the man threw himself forward out of sight.

Paz grabbed Bourne and dragged him back into the safety of the house.  
"Still wearing your vest?" he panted.  
Bourne only groaned. Paz pulled off his t-shirt and sure enough, the torn green vest was still there.

Bourne gave a weak chuckle. "After I was shot at in New York I lost my nerve, starting wearing one of these… guess it payed off."

Paz pulled it off. "It's useless now; this second attempt on your life pretty much did it in. You're lucky."

Bourne nodded and struggled to his feet. "I guess you really are innocent or else a very good actor."

"What are you talking about?" Paz asked.

"The man that shot at me - he was in the stadium the night you shot me. Either you led him here, or he's here to finish his job, namely, killing you."

Paz was speechless. "I swear I'm not leading you on… intentionally. If they followed us, I had no knowledge of it whatsoever."

Bourne sighed. "I guess I have to admit I believe you. You don't come across as a very good actor anyway." He smiled weakly. "Watch my back."

Bourne took back his pistol and limped out of the house. Paz followed, feeling slightly exasperated with Bourne for his cynicism.

They walked to the edge of the hill. Paz was distracted by a distant humming, but Bourne was looking at the crumpled grass where their assailant had disappeared. They started downhill and soon caught sight of the assailant's blonde hair as he crouched in the high grass, several yards away.

Bourne stopped and let off a shot. The man fell forward but rolled over and returned a shot which grazed Paz's arm. Bourne shot him again and the man went still. Still watching him, Bourne carefully picked his way down the steep hill.

When he was a safe distance away, he ordered the man to throw the gun away. The man slowly reached underneath him, and with some difficulty, threw it in the direction of Bourne.

By now the humming had become much louder, and Paz spied the source, a small helicopter breaching the tops of the trees behind them.

It dawned on Bourne first what was happening. He yelled at Paz to run, and took off downhill towards the taller shrubs and trees.

In the open door of the helicopter crouched a man with a Scorpion Evo*. The next moment the ground around Paz was kicked up by a torrent of bullets.

Paz tore down the hill after Bourne. He caught up with him almost instantly. Bourne had slowed down considerably, owing to the injury he had just sustained.

With the helicopter right behind them, Paz knew what he had to do.

* * *

Bourne was flagging; the three bullets that had thumped into his bulletproof vest had left him bruised and with a couple broken ribs. Running was only exacerbating his pain and breathlessness.

Heavy footsteps behind him announced Paz's presence. Just as the next volley of bullets reached them, he felt propelled off the ground. Paz's arms wrapped around him as they both lost their footing and went flying headlong down the hill.

There was a moment of airborne silence, than there was another volley of bullets and Paz, above him, shuddered violently. The ground unexpectedly rushed up and they hit the ground hard. Bourne flipped over once more and came to rest hidden in the shrub. Paz rolled a few feet further and landed in an untidy heap.

Shaken and winded, Bourne lay immobile for several moments, still clutching his pistol. The helicopter had overshot them and was turning for another round. He looked over at Paz who lay inert where he had landed; his back darkening with blood.

The helicopter turned around and once again unleashed a volley of bullets. None of them hit Bourne, but they cut up the ground and spit dirt and wood splinters into his face. He drew his gun and propped it on his arm as he aimed at the front of the helicopter. If he missed this one, he knew he wouldn't get a second chance.

Thankfully the helicopter seemed diverted for a second. It had caught sight of their assailant who was also crawling for shelter. Their moment of inattention was enough to give Bourne to draw a bead on the helicopter and let off two shots which penetrated the front of it.

The helicopter shook, than righted itself and turned. On his belly, Bourne wriggled his way towards a clump of low trees… and safety. Black smoke was starting to emerge from the engine of the helicopter, obstructing the view of the shooter crouched in the doorway.

The helicopter let off one more round directed more at the would-be assassin on the ground than at Bourne, then turned and left, albeit at a noticeably slower pace than it had arrived.

* * *

The sun was getting low in the hills as a lone figure slogged along the beachfront. His steps were slow and unsteady but his eyes glittered with fury for having been betrayed.

A small outboard tied knee-deep in the water bobbed merrily. The man swung one leg over the side, then groaned and sank back into the water.

His shaking fingers untied the boat and he painfully dragged it closer to shore. When the bottom scraped the shore, he pulled himself into the boat, each movement labored.

It took a few minutes, but he got the motor started. Just then there was the click of a gun behind him. "Move over."  
Running one hand through his blond hair, he obeyed.

There was a grunt and someone's feet were plopped in his lap. They belonged to a dark-haired, ashen-faced man. His eyes were closed, and there was blood everywhere.  
Panting and gun in hand, Bourne clambered in too and situated himself in the front, cradling Paz's head in his hands.

The blonde assassin turned and steered the little boat away from the coast and into the dark blue expanse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Suppressed Scorpion Evo Carbine 9mm.


	13. Chapter 13

Bourne stirred, than sat up. Fragments of his interrupted dream floated around him as he looked around, getting his bearings back.

He was sitting on a recliner-style chair next to a slated window. A cheap lamp on the table beside him gave out a yellowish light. Two beds, one occupied, filled up most of the rest of the room.

He got up and peered out the window to the darkened lawn outside. There were footsteps and two nurses, chattering quietly in an unknown Chinese dialect, walked past. He glanced down at his watch and noted the time before looking over to the bed where Paz had lain since coming back from his third surgery in the last two days.

As for the would-be assassin, he was also in surgery at the moment-Bourne was guessing one of his shots had damaged his lungs; he'd been chronically short of breath ever since they'd been together.  
Against his will, Bourne had forced him to keep talking the entire three-hour boat ride, just as much to keep him conscious as much as Bourne awake.  
Dominic he'd said his name was. He was soft-spoken and reticent to a fault. Born in Slovakia; moved to the States when he was twelve with his family. Did poorly in school, either he was gifted or undisciplined. Originally tried to join Outcome, he'd said, but wasn't accepted because of his poor grasp of English. Unexpectedly invited and accepted into Blackbriar and had been stationed in Asia for several years.  
His car was exactly where he'd told Bourne—beside the public boat docking area. Dominic didn't trust the closest hospital, so another hour was added to the trip.

There was stunned silence when they burst through the hospital's door, but the money Bourne offered (and his promise of more) answered most of the unasked questions and the blood dripping from Paz's body answered the rest.

Now it was quiet. The privacy was enviable and Dominic's grasp of Mandarin was invaluable.

* * *

Across the room, Paz moved his head, searching for Bourne.

Bourne took up a chair beside him as his dark eyes settled on him. Paz tried to speak, but the breathing tube prevented him.

His eyes were pleading, but Bourne could only hold his hand and imagine how he felt.  
Bourne cleared his throat. "Paz,…I wanted to…thank you…for saving my life." Paz blinked, but stayed focused on his face.  
"I'm sorry for doubting you; you didn't lead them on to me intentionally, it was all a set-up."

Paz's eyes lost focus, Bourne sighed and for a moment all was quiet save for the steady beep-beep of the machines. When he looked up again, Paz's eyes had closed. Bourne got up and was halfway out of the door when a chill overtook him.

He looked back and noticed a white pallor had taken over Paz's face. At the same time, a jarring alarm started sounding from one of the machines beside his bed.

The scream that erupted from his throat was barely human and brought nurses and doctors alike running.  
Bourne grabbed the nearest doctor. "Do something!" his voice cracked, "Don't you dare let him die!" The doctor stared uncomprehendingly at him before shoving him aside and rushing over to the bed.

Bourne ducked outside and started running. Where, he did not know, but he had to get away.

When his aching lungs begged for a rest, he found himself on a small beach.

He dropped down on the warm sand and watched the waves roll in and crash on the surf. The beach reminded him of another one, many miles away, where he had proposed to the only love of his life: Marie. He wondered what she would think of him now. Picking up a handful of sand, he watched it sift through his fingers. That's how fast life is. Then it's gone… quickly forgotten forever.

He decided Marie would be pleased with him; after all, he'd tried to save both Paz's and the assassin's lives.  
Only a loud thunderclap answered his thoughts.  
I'd better get going.  
Although he was still unsettled, his racing heart had returned to normal and he smoothed out the sand and got to his feet.

The angry clouds poured down rain before he had gone long.  
"Just my luck," he muttered as he crossed a slick street and glanced behind him before he came in the back gate of the hospital.  
His bravado held out until he was at the doorway. The drawn curtains across the door seemed to guard an unknown threshold - one he feared to cross.

"Who's there?" a small voice inquired from inside. Bourne swept aside the curtain and entered the dim room. The assassin, Dominic was lying on the first bed, flushed and exhausted.

But more important was the breathing person in the bed beside him.

"He's alive?" Bourne exclaimed in relief.

Dom's voice was flat with fatigue. "I don't remember; when I woke up from surgery they were still working on him. Something about massive internal bleeding, I thought they plugged all the holes yesterday…" his voice trailed off.  
Bourne looked over at him, sleeping; then took up a chair beside the other bed.  
A little bit of color had returned to Paz's face but his closed eyes and his face still looked absolutely drained.  
"Don't do that to me again buddy; I'm getting a weak heart from this." Bourne took one of his clammy hands in his to convince himself he was really breathing and chuckled unconvincingly.

He gave one more look over at Dominic, I need to question him, but that can wait.  
A crushing load had been taken off his chest and he settled in to spend the rest of the night in watchfulness.

* * *

 

Bourne tapped his foot to the beat of the small jukebox nestled on the window amidst several potted flowers. Seated on the table in front of him, Dom took several experimental deep breaths. A doctor watched carefully and jotted notes on his clipboard. After checking his lungs once more he smiled broadly and spoke to Dom. By the tone of his voice, Bourne could tell he was pleased.

Half an hour later, walking slowly beside Dom down a quiet garden path in the hospital courtyard, Bourne asked what the doctor had said.

"The lungs are healing properly. The bullet that passed through damaged both of them, but they don't think I will lose much volume. The other bullet didn't hit any organs…I was very fortunate."  
His breathing quickened and they sat down on a bench.

Dom became reflective and Bourne watched as he took a small silver ring from his pocket and held it up to the sunlight.

"It was an accident," Dom said softly, in return to Bourne's quizzical look. "Two weeks after I had proposed to her. In the confusion following a flashbang she was mistaken for a terrorist and shot by her own partner. Both lungs. She had no chance." Dom's face twisted and he turned away.

The questions Bourne had meant to ask died away on his lips and he instead put his hand on Dom's shoulder for a moment.  
"I'm sorry; I do know what it feels like, believe me."  
Dom's shoulder did not soften.  
Bourne cleared his throat- after all, apologies were not his forte- and walked back along the cobbled path and through a set of double doors into the cool interior of the hospital. Paz was reclining on a chair and a nurse was trying to help him hold a small glass of water by himself. Paz's furrowed brow indicated he was trying and indeed the glass was almost steady.

Bourne smiled and sat down facing away from Paz. The sun was warm and his eyelids drooped for a moment.

Crash!

Bourne almost fell out of his chair. Against the cement floor, the broken water glass had been startlingly loud; almost like…a gun?

He whipped around to see Paz slide to the floor and a tall man take his place, brandishing a silenced Glock. The unexpectedness of the breaking glass had broken his surprise attack and Bourne reacted instantly, picking up the chair and hurling it at the man just as the man's gaze settled on him and he fired at him. The chair seemed to explode in midair, showering everyone with wood and sending the gun skittering across the floor.

There was a scream from somewhere in the hospital. Although the gun was across the room, Bourne dived for it, as did the gunman. A shadow flitted across the doorway, and the gun was scooped up.  
Bourne rolled to his feet. Dom had the gun and was pointing it at the gunman's forehead.  
"Get up." Dom's voice was menacing. The gunman slowly rose to his feet.  
"I didn't know you were still alive?" Dom growled. The veins on his neck stood out, but his aim didn't waver. Bourne reached down and pulled Paz out of the way.  
The gunman matched Dom's gaze with as much venom. "Hah! You…you were such a traitor! Going along with everything the agency told you, backstabbing your loyal partner, me!" His voice shook with fury. "You left me for dead and basked in the hero treatment back home…you'd do anything to cover your tracks right? Even if it means ingratiating yourself with your own target."

He turned to Bourne. "I hate you too, skipping out of the program, messing up all our lives; you know how many agents were killed all because of you two?! I hate both of your guts!"  
He spat at Dom and lunged at Bourne. His attack took them both off guard and Bourne was knocked off balance. The gunman tripped and crashed on top of Paz, pulling a knife out of his sleeve. There were two loud bangs and the gunman gasped once and went still.

Bourne shakily got to his feet. "Dom, give me the gun," he said quietly. Dom only stared at the dead gunman, his whole body shaking as the adrenalin left him.  
"Dom."  
Bourne's voice was low and authoritative and brooked no argument. He reached out and closed his hand firmly around Dom's. Dominic's shoulder's sagged and he released the gun. Bourne slid the safety on, tucked it in his pocket and reached down and rolled the dead gunman off turned to Dom. "Grab our stuff."

Paz was covered in blood and appeared to be in shock.

Bourne picked Paz up and carried him outside. He deposited him on a deck chair and sprinted around the side of the building to their car which was still parked there.

He pulled up outside their room just as Dom, breathing raggedly, emerged with a duffle. Bourne carefully settled Paz in the back, and with Dom in front, he took off. A quick glance behind showed a flood of hospital personnel taking in the carnage they had left behind.

* * *

 

Indeed the morning hadn't gone as Paz had planned. Against his own premonitions, he had allowed the nurses to get him to sit almost upright in a chair. He had become dizzy and his back and chest hurt, but the nurses couldn't understand him. They were also trying to get him to drink by himself. They gave him a small glass and he gripped it for all his worth, not wanting to let Bourne see how much he was struggling. At least they didn't try to make him stand up, they knew he had no feeling in both legs, courtesy of the bullets they had kindly removed out of his back.

Someone called and the nurse left Paz alone. He wanted to put the cup down, but couldn't stretch out his arms to reach the table beside him. He lowered it slowly to his lap as his ears caught the sound of someone in the doorway.  
His skin prickled with fear as he recognized the soft careful footsteps of an asset. He lay back against the chair, feigning sleep.  
It was too quiet; he could feel the man's eyes boring into him. His mind raced, he had to distract the gunman without getting shot. If his legs worked, he could kick him, but they were useless. Paz opened one eye; the gunman was behind his bed now, out of eyesight, looking at Bourne. Paz had summoned all his strength and hurled his water glass at the gunman and in the same instance gripping the edge of the chair, stiffly rolling off it.

Time slowed: the gunman whirled and let off a shot at the chair Paz had vacated seconds ago, than turned just in time to see Bourne hurling a wooden chair at him. The gun went off, both men had dived for the floor and Dom burst in just in time to scoop up the gun.

Right underneath everyone's feet, Paz had tried in vain to wriggle out of the way.

Paz could hear the acrimony in Dominic's voice as he commanded the gunman to get up. There was a warm hand on his shoulder and Bourne slid him away from the assassin. Above the pounding of his heart, Paz could barely hear what Dom was saying to the gunman. The gunman yelled something back at Dom, but Paz didn't recognize his voice. The gunman lunged forward, than backwards, tripped and suddenly he was crashing downwards towards Paz, trying to pull something out of his pocket as he went. Paz didn't have time to protect himself and winced as the full weight of the gunman slammed into him.

The gunman's green eyes pierced through Paz's for a minute, and then there were two sharp gunshots and Paz closed his eyes from the blood that splattered him. He had recoiled from the warm skin of the dead gunman above him.

A crushing weight had been lifted off and he was picked up and deposited in a chair outside.

He had blinked and realized his whole body was shaking violently. Despite the warm sun, he was shivering with cold. Dom shuffled out of the room carrying something just as Bourne pulled up with their car. Paz had obediently ducked his head as Bourne shoved him in the back seat where he flopped to his side. The seat cushion was soft and comforting and he let his body sink deep into it.

* * *

 

Save for the sound of the engine, the car was quiet. Dominic rested his head against the window and Bourne chewed his lip thoughtfully.  
He glanced in his mirror at Paz sleeping in the back and looked sideways at Dom, who, for his part, sighed loudly.  
"Is it true what he said?"  
"Not entirely," Dom acknowledged. "I really did think he was dead, I mean, the gunman was a good shot, and I couldn't wait around and check…I never liked him, and I was suspicious of him, but in the end, he wasn't a traitor like I thought…I did hear later he returned, but I never admitted my part. He couldn't remember what happened, so never told on me…I guess he remembered now," Dom gave a small smile.

Bourne sighed deeply and decided against a retort. "You never did tell me about how you found us though."

Dom's smile faded. "I don't know how much he has told you…I didn't know much about him until he was flown to Hong Kong…I knew he'd been a big pain to the agency, though not as big a pain as you were," he said without smiling.  
"His story had produced several meetings and they were eager to wrap him up quickly since they'd gotten hands on him.

"Their plan was for him to take out a certain Chinese man who they thought could upset the current government plans they had in mind. He was supposed to take out this man, and my job was to take him out after that.

"Neither the agency nor I had any idea you were going to be there…he must have recognized you, and it sunk in what was actually happening. In the confusion that followed I lost him. I was dreading as to what would happen to me for missing such a high-priority target until I was contacted and told I was going to be given another chance…not Paz again though; an older man who lived outside the city.

"After I arrived and disturbed the man's breakfast I realized he must be related to the whole Paz case. He readily admitted to working for the agency, but he and another man had become disillusioned with it and tried to separate themselves from it…he accused them of killing the other man and said he knew they'd find him eventually. "After they took my family, I knew it was only a manner of time before they got me" were his actual words. Before I could question him further about this, I heard a car stopping nearby.

"I killed the man and hid nearby. I watched as you two searched the house, and when you came out I shot at you… I didn't realise you were wearing a vest though.  
I wasn't very scared of Paz…I knew the agency had been working on him and he didn't seem in very good shape; he couldn't even hit me from a few feet away!

"You grazed my shoulder and I think I hit Paz, but then you shot me again, right under my arm. " Dom seemed to realize how much he was saying and grew quiet for a few moments.  
When Bourne didn't say anything and the silence grew uncomfortable he started again.  
"I didn't know anything about there being another assassin in the helicopter. When they started shooting at me I suddenly realized my 'second chance job' was a 'last job', and all the rumors I'd heard about agents disappearing after jobs suddenly made sense.

I started crawling downhill to safety, but got one more bullet to the chest before making it there. I think I laid there for about half an hour, because when I came to myself, it was getting dark and there was no one in sight. I knew I still had the boat that I'd arrived in, and surprisingly, I could still walk.

I couldn't get in, so I brought it close to shore, which is where you found me…" Dom swallowed. "What were you doing in the meantime?"

"It took me a few minutes to get myself together after the helicopter left," Bourne answered readily "…I found Paz, rolled him over, and realized he'd been hit multiple times from the helicopter while shielding me." Bourne blinked quickly a few times.

"He was unresponsive and bleeding like crazy. I tore up my undershirt and tried to stop the bleeding as best I could. I noticed you then…I'd actually kind of forgotten about you…and followed you. It was very convenient of you to come by boat; otherwise you two would probably be dead."

Bourne looked at Dom seriously. "Killing you was never really an option, it may have felt good for a moment, but I would only regret it later. Me, you, Paz, we were all pawns to the agency. I experienced freedom first, but it took me a little while to realize the responsibility that freedom brings. Revenge killing will only get you so far; the most beautiful woman in the world taught me that.

"I think Paz has learned that already, underneath his strong exterior, he really does have a heart." Bourne grinned, than looked over at Dom, who had a strange look on his face.

"Well Dom, you probably thought that agent deserved to die after he accidentally killed your girlfriend, right?  
"Except he didn't know it was your girlfriend, so he felt justly betrayed when you failed to protect him during a mission, am I correct?"

Dom's face turned white, but he didn't say anything. "I can't totally misplace the hate he had against you…you let personal vengeance get in between you and your work." Bourne looked over at Dom's guilty face. "You, Dom, were the actual traitor, your girlfriend didn't actually work for the agency…that ring you have from her is the insignia of a smuggling organization in Slovakia.  
"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and say you were trying to bring her in, turn her. Maybe she was listening to you, I don't know. But then your partner killed her…and the bottom of your world dropped out. Maybe he guessed something, but you did nothing to help him when those two guards burst around the corner. You left him for dead, covered your tracks, and returned to the States a hero."

Bourne cocked his head at Dom, who had a single tear track down his face, "I think you regretted it; revenge lost its sweetness and became bitter. You worked hard, did your best as an agent, rose through the ranks in Asia, where no one knew you, but still you felt the guilt. Because underneath, I think you have a heart, like Paz. You had your doubts about the agency didn't you?  
"And now it's your turn to feel the sting of betrayal."

Dom closed his eyes and reflected for a while. Finally he looked at Bourne in the eye, a spark of hope glittering in his dark eyes. "I admit it all, I am, I mean, I was a traitor…so why did you let me live, to tell me all this now?  
Bourne gave him the faintest of smiles, "Because that agent was a fanatic, a real piece of work; he wasn't a total patriot either, and besides, he's dead now, along with many other agents. That life, your life, is a closed book, history, gone, burnt out. You're on the threshold of something new and great, but you're still living in the past…you were coming to your end of the rope in Asia anyway.

"You have here an opportunity to start over; very, very few people get that. Use it wisely."

And behind him, face hidden by the bag, Paz smiled.


	14. Epilogue

The Vietnam air was warm and breezy as Bourne strode along a rutted back alley. In his hands he held a crumpled newspaper.

A short flight of stairs led into the back part of a stone building. Two more flights of stairs brought him to private apartment nestled on the roof of the multi-story building. The rooms were small, but brightly decorated.

After leaving the Chinese hospital in search of one that could offer more advanced care, they'd spent the last several weeks in different hospitals up and down the Vietnam coast.

His footsteps on the tile floor made one of the two figures on the small deck turn slightly. Dominic raised a finger to his lips and motioned to the figure in the deck chair beside him.  
Bourne squinted in the bright sun. "He's gonna roast if you let him sleep in the sun too much, Dom."

Dominic looked down at his own gaunt and pale chest and shrugged.

Bourne handed him the paper. "…From several weeks ago; I couldn't translate the whole thing − you know better."  
Dom took the proffered paper and slowly read the headline out loud. "Group of Americans expelled from country after suspicious death of activist and another man."

Dom tugged at his small earring and smiled. He got up off the small deck chair and limped inside. Bourne took the chair and looked over at Paz, only to find him watching him.

Bourne took one of Paz's legs and massaged it for a minute.

"Do they still tingle?" he asked. Paz nodded, but looked discouraged.

Bourne frowned and moved over to the railing. The streets were quiet, and Bourne felt a restlessness come over him. He was tired of the inactive lifestyle he'd been living for the past several months with these two disabled people, especially as it was looking as if Paz might never walk again.  
Immediately, he felt bad for thinking that way. Paz had almost died saving his life, and now he was bored with caring for him.

He walked back into the cool indoors where Dom was patiently dismantling a pomegranate. He pulled up a chair across from him. "Dom, what would you say if I returned to Europe?"

Dominic considered the question as he dug out a few more seeds. He finally put down the pomegranate and looked Bourne in the eye.  
"Bourne, I owe you my life… and…and I'll always be totally indebted to you." He looked down for a moment. "If you want to leave, go ahead. I will stay and care for Paz for as long as it is necessary. You have my word."

* * *

Two years later ~ Southeast Asia

The sun glinted off the sparkling water as a fast boat moved along the verdant coast of a large island. Row upon row of fruit trees and fields dotted the gently rolling landscape.

The boat pulled up to a wharf in a natural harbor surrounded by warehouses and other buildings of varying shapes and sizes.  
A grizzled man stepped out of the boat, hoisted a battered rucksack on his shoulders and walked up the boardwalk. The path split, one going down to the busy fields and orchards, and another up to several houses set on the side of the hill.

He turned slowly to take in the spectacular scenery and the people working, and then took the path down to the fields. Setting the rucksack down under the shade of a coconut tree, he sat down to watch the activity.  
His attention was drawn to a familiar blond figure on horseback making his way towards him.  
Dominic stopped in front of him and swung off his horse.  
"I'm glad you found a tree, it's too hot to be out in the open this time of day."

Bourne appraised him briefly, taking in the muscular and tanned figure.  
"You look better than the last time I saw you, Dom."  
"And you look worse," Dom quipped before sobering. "I'm sorry about the death of your friend, I heard about it on the news."  
Bourne looked down for a moment and it was all quiet save for the sound of the birds chirping. Finally, he looked up at the houses questioningly.  
"Yes, Sebastian's up there; probably having a siesta."  
"Sebastian? "  
"He goes by his real name now," Dominic explained.

Bourne started for the house.

"Don't underestimate him," came from behind him. He turned and smiled at Dom before continuing on his way.

Bourne slid aside the curtains covering the back doorway and stepped into the house. The interior was dark and cool. Red tile covered the floor and the wood furniture was simple but elegant.

He padded up behind a man sitting on a wheeled chair facing a row of windows. His head was down and he appeared to be sleeping. Remembering Dom's words, Bourne softened his footsteps until he was standing directly behind him. He grabbed the chair and spun it around towards him, only to have a startlingly strong hand grip his own and twist it, bringing him crashing down to his knees and eye level with a sleek gun held steady in the other person's hand.  
Paz stared in surprise at him for a breath before snorting in amusement and releasing him.  
"Gosh, have you never heard of knocking?"

"The reception's usually better if I come unannounced," Bourne retorted, getting stiffly to his feet. He walked a full circle around Sebastian, a smile playing on his lips.  
Sebastian watched him. "I haven't seen you in years…I… heard about Nicky; I'm sorry. I know you cared deeply for her."

Bourne ran his hand through his graying hair. "I know − I'm sorry too."

He picked up a stout cane that was leaning against the wall and handed it to Sebastian, who accepted it and got up.

Bourne walked beside him as he limped heavily over to the windows, which turned out to be full-length doors leading out to a slim balcony.

Leaning against the railing, they surveyed the scenery together in companionable silence.  
"Dominic lives over there?" he motioned to a similar sized house a distance away.  
"Mmm-hmm…he and his wife and baby," Sebastian said, ruffling his thick black hair.  
Bourne nodded in approval.  
"What about that house?" Bourne gestured to a third house.  
"A widow and her son, she was, ah…used to be at least, the wife of a friend of mine, Henri…you wouldn't know him." Sebastian finished quietly.

Bourne sensed regret in his voice and didn't press the matter.

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you want. My home is your home; whenever you need it," Sebastian said, changing the subject.

His legs were shaking now and they walked back inside and took seats in the kitchen area. Sebastian brought out drinks and toasted Jason's 'return in one piece and not in a coffin'.  
"Pa-Sebastian," Bourne corrected himself, "I still have one more place I need to go."  
"Russia?" Sebastian guessed.  
Bourne nodded, "Are you interested in a trip?"  
He watched a spark of adventure light in Sebastian's eyes for a beat, than disappearing.  
He shook his head. "I'd just slow you down, and besides, I have lots to do here."

Bourne nodded in acquiescence, "Dominic had told me he'd found a little dilapidated spot." He looked down to the neat row of warehouses. "You two must have put in a lot of work."  
Sebastian shrugged, "He did the physical labor, and I did the mental; it helped get my mind off my…injuries."  
Bourne realized he was staring at the assortment of scars on Paz's forearm and turned away

"Are you going back to India too?"  
Bourne shook his head. "No, I'll stick around here for a while, I'm tired."

* * *

Later that evening, as Bourne sat at the long table in Dominic's house, holding Dom's little baby, being served by his lovely wife, he caught Dominic's eye and smiled.  
When Sebastian excused himself and disappeared to the bathroom, Bourne turned to Dominic.  
"I didn't know your wife was brought to you." Bourne grinned.  
Dominic returned the smile. "Sebastian has a hobby of finding people who are in a need of a …safer...place to stay."  
Bourne nodded as he watched the dark-haired widow and her little son sitting on the opposite side of the table.  
"Has he found one for himself too?" Bourne winked.  
Dominic laughed out loud, but didn't answer.

"Sebastian tells me you are going to Russia; I thought you were staying here." Dominic expression turned to worry.

"I don't think it will be a long trip," came from behind Bourne. He looked behind him at Sebastian standing in the darkened doorway.

"And as I already told him", Sebastian smiled, "there's always room for one more."

* * *

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading my little story. It is much appreciated :)  
> Special thanks to angel85qcca, Moon lantern, and enfield4forever; without them this story would not have been possible :D  
> Don't forget to review :) ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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